


Picking Up Roses

by jemariel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: A/b/o as allegory, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Beta Castiel (Supernatural), Beta Dean Winchester, Beta/Beta, Closeted Character, Coming Out, DeanCas FlipFest 2019, Ferris Wheels, Frottage, Homophobia, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Marijuana, Massage, Masturbation, Mentions of Conversion Therapy (in the past), Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Recreational Drug Use, Scent Kink, Secrets, Self-Worth Issues, Yoga, Yoga Instructor Dean Winchester, business exec Castiel, fake Alpha Castiel, fake Omega Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-11-02 07:02:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20661473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jemariel/pseuds/jemariel
Summary: Castiel Smith has spent his life climbing the corporate ladder, and has sacrificed a lot to get where he is. Including pieces of his own identity. Nobody can know he's not actually an alpha....Dean Winchester has carved out a life for himself in spite of his troubled past. When Castiel Smith shows up in his yoga class, there might finally be someone he can open up to, truly....Hidden truths are intimate things, and you never know what you'll discover when you're honest with someone.Written for the DeanCas FlipFest 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> IT'S FINALLY HERE!!
> 
> I've been sitting on this story since March and I am So Very Excited to share it with y'all.
> 
> I had the pleasure and privilege to work with [Blueeyesandpie](https://blueeyesandpie.tumblr.com/) for this challenge. I can't thank her enough for her GORGEOUS banner and story art. I cry T__T Check out her [art masterpost](https://blueeyesandpie.tumblr.com/post/187769626065/title-picking-up-roses-author-jemariel-artist/) and cry with me.
> 
> Enormous loves to [Elanor-n-evermind](https://elanor-n-evermind.tumblr.com/) for being with me every step of the way, from brainstorming to comma wrangling. Loves also to [MaggieMaybe160](https://maggiemaybe160.tumblr.com/) for the grammar help and, as always, to [Sharkfish](https://reallyelegantsharkfish.tumblr.com/) for her enthusiasm and encouragement.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

At five minutes past six am, Castiel Smith is rudely awoken from his dream of escape. He can't even remember what he was dreaming about. Probably flying. He likes those. 

It doesn't matter, because after an indulgence of exactly one snooze button, he is up and in and out of the shower. He applies liberal amounts of his synthetic alpha pheromone and tries not to think about it. Instead, he debates: red tie? Or blue tie? Red tie. With navy suspenders and a robin's-egg-blue shirt. Everything crisp. Everything sharp. Not a single ironed crease out of place.

A spoonful of peanut butter to fill out his protein smoothie, and then he's out the door. No coffee — he's been trying to kick the habit. Bad for the kidneys. 

Seven twenty-seven and he's strolling with purpose through the shining glass-and-chrome lobby of Sandover International. It's a cultivated stride: fast, but not so fast that he looks nervous, and long steps for gravitas. With a wink and a “Morning, Sally” to the giddy omega receptionist and a pause for “Dave, how was the Mediterranean? Good!” he makes his way to the elevators.

Inside, there's a moment of peace. Castiel breathes it in, then smoothes down the hair over his ear. Unruly, as always. He just had it cut last week, and it's already growing wings. 

His reflection in the door is interrupted when they open on the fourth floor. Hannah steps in with a wide smile and a “Good morning, Castiel.”

He gives her a nod and a smile back. He likes Hannah more genuinely than most people in this office. “Morning,” he says. 

“Have you thought about that yoga class I mentioned?” she asks like she’s offering him a temptation.

Castiel freezes in place. “Um…” He must pause just slightly too long because she digs in harder.

“Come on, Castiel. You can’t be mister ‘Big Perfect Alpha’ on protein smoothies alone,” she says.

“I do lift, you know,” he points out. More than he lets on, in fact. He has to work hard to maintain a facsimile of an alpha’s physique.

“A little variety won’t kill you,” she says as the doors open on their floor. She rifles around in her purse as they step off the elevator. “Here—take a card just in case.” By the time Castiel realizes he’s reaching for the card, it’s too late to politely refuse. So he makes a half-hearted salute with it, tucks it in his trouser pocket, and escapes.

Seven thirty-one, and Castiel opens the door to his big-windowed office, breathing a minor sigh of relief. It’s quiet in here, and he takes a moment to savor that. Soon he’ll be at the center of a whirlwind: virtual meetings, actual meetings, profit-loss reports, budget analyses. Smiling at the right people, baring his teeth at others, closing deals, making waves. 

But for now, it’s just him and the perfect view of the city outside his windows. He sets down his shiny leather satchel on the huge, glass-topped desk, sinks into the high-backed leather chair, and breathes in his few minutes of calm. He’s earned this. More than any natural-born alpha, he’s earned his distinguished position, the respect of his peers and subordinates.

But today it all trembles down to the foundations.

Today it’s going to be difficult.

Castiel rarely has to lie about his secondary. He implies and he encourages people’s assumptions. Betas are rare enough that he doesn’t really have to do much for people to file him firmly in the ‘alpha’ category.

But some days, the charade weighs heavy on his shoulders. He wears his custom-formulated—and very expensive—synthetic alpha scent. He walks his walk, he presents as he has been taught. But none of that changes the bone-deep fact that he _is_ _beta_, much to his everlasting chagrin. They tried, they all tried: the priests, the doctors, the psychiatrists. _He _tried. Now, he just tries not to think about it. 

Day to day, it doesn’t matter.

Usually.

With effort, Castiel snaps himself out of it. Work. Yes. There’s a fine tremor in his fingers when he reaches to log into his computer, but he ignores it. Before long, he’s lost in the world of pricing estimates and leads, contracts and budgets. 

He’s good at his job. Whatever else he is, no one can take that away from him.

~~

A sharp rap of knuckles on his door startles him out of his groove. “Come in,” he says, straightening his waistcoat.

It’s just Gabriel, strolling in with a smirk. “Hey there, Casanova!”

Castiel’s teeth grind, but he manages to hide it behind a grin. “Gabriel. Just the man I wanted to see,” he lies. “A client was telling me about the Master Cleanse. Have you heard of it? It’s supposed to do wonders for detoxing the—”

“No time for that, amigo. I’m here to ask you a very important question.” Gabriel slaps both hands down on the desk and leans in close. “Any big plans for the weekend?”

Castiel buys time with a tired sigh, trying to remember if it’s been long enough since his last “rut” that he can use that as an excuse. It hasn’t. The truth it must be, then. “Actually, I’m halfway through _ For Whom The Bell Tolls _. I was hoping to finish it this weekend.”

This doesn’t even give Gabriel pause, assuming he even listened. “Not anymore, you’re not! Me and the boys are going stir crazy over here, and we gotta cut loose. So!” He stands back up and shoots finger guns at Castiel. “Vegas. We are hoppin’ a plane to Vegas, my friend! You in?”

One of Castiel’s eyebrows marches up. “What exactly are you planning on doing in Vegas?”

Gabriel gives him an incredulous look, like he’s just asked where babies come from at the age of thirty. “Are you kidding me? What _ aren’t _ we planning to do in Vegas! Come on, Cassie—you always have a great time when you actually come out with us.” That is patently false, but Gabriel doesn’t need to know that. In fact, it’s far better if he doesn’t. For half a second, Castiel considers capitulating for the sake of his reputation, but just the idea of an entire weekend in the company of Gabriel and his posse of knot-headed ruffians is enough to bring his bile up.

“I can’t,” he says. “I’d have to find someone to watch my cat.”

Gabriel waves a dismissive hand. “Just leave a big pile of food; it’ll be fine. Or, hell, get Hannah to feed it; she loves that kind of shit.”

Hannah. Yes. Perfect. “Actually, Hannah has invited me to join her yoga class tomorrow morning. So, no. I can’t come to Vegas. I’m sure you understand.” He plasters on a smile that doesn’t show his gritted teeth.

Gabriel’s silence is almost louder than his cajoling. “Seriously? Yoga? You’re pussing out on Vegas… for _ yoga? _”

Castiel just shrugs, helpless in more ways than one. “I promised,” he says.

When Gabriel rolls his eyes, his whole body rolls with them. “Whatever. Don’t say I never include you in anything.” And then he dances out of the room, warbling an off-key rendition of _ Viva! Las Vegas _ that would set an ostrich’s teeth on edge.

Castiel is still glaring after him when Hannah wanders in, eyebrows raised at Gabriel’s departing back.

“Don’t say a word,” Castiel says, pulling his satchel from under his desk and stuffing it with papers. “Do you have the Anderson budget?” Perhaps he should feel bad for being so short, but it has been a long week, and Gabriel has burned through most of what remained of his fuse.

“I do,” she says with a gracious smile, laying a slim file on his desk. He snatches it up and shoves it in with the others. “And I don’t have to say anything. The stink in here is enough.”

Castiel scrubs his hand over his face, a familiar gesture that he hopes hides his self-sniff as well as he thinks it does. His pheromones are still holding up, though they are a little stale. He hasn’t re-applied since lunchtime. “Sorry,” he says. “Gabriel.”

“It’s amazing how one man can be such a profound irritant,” Hannah says, sympathetic.

“I think he swallowed itching powder as a child, and it stuck,” Castiel muses.

Hannah laughs, then her grin turns sly. “So.”

Oh no. Here it comes.

“What’s this I hear about you making me promises?”

Castiel drops into his chair and rubs at the mounting tension around his eyebrows. “Come on, you know I was just trying to get Gabriel off my back.” Even as he speaks, a little guilty snake curls around in his belly and latches on with sharp teeth.

“And I provided your excuse, so it sounds like you owe me one.”

Game. Set. Match. “Okay,” he says, meeting her eyes again. “You win. One session.”

“That’s all I ask,” she says with a serene, satisfied smirk. “Enjoy your reading.” With that, she turns on a heel, finally leaving Castiel alone with a tepid sunset in his panoramic windows and a crick in his neck.

He watches the clouds for a moment, turning from daylight white to evening blue. He digs the card out of his pocket and examines it. It’s devoid of any flowery, new-agey designs. It only has a studio name—_ Stairway Studios _—an address, and hours of operation printed in shiny black ink.

Well. It will be better than Vegas.

~~

The yoga studio is not quite what Castiel expects. It’s a dark-shingled ramshackle of a building hanging off the end of a strip mall with a pair of large steel buckets sitting outside, home to a reedy-looking rosemary and sage. The studio name on the glass door looks hand-painted, and not recently.

Castiel squints at it skeptically and then leans toward Hannah. “You’re sure this is the right place?”

Hannah shrugs, tugging down her loose sweatshirt against the springtime chill. “It might not look like much, but it’s what’s inside that counts. That goes for the teacher, too. Don’t take him at face value.”

“Him?” Castiel asks.

“Yes. Omega, of course,” Hannah says with a quick, conspiratorial smirk.

Castiel fights down an eye-roll. Of course he is. 

They step through the glass doors and into a wall of scent so powerful, Castiel is surprised he couldn’t smell it outside. A swirling blend of incense—patchouli, nag champa, lavender—makes his head spin and lights a sharp pain between his eyebrows.

“Good lord,” he mutters, pressing a hand to his forehead.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” comes a new voice, a man’s voice. “It’s not as bad in the studio proper, I promise.”

The headache recedes as Castiel acclimatizes, and he opens his eyes to see the speaker. Not quite who Cas had suspected either, but in this calm, dark space of aromatic wood and low shafts of light, he makes perfect sense. He’s fit and lean under a rough-worn, threadbare Led Zeppelin T-shirt, and Cas can see the faded snake of a tattoo circling his right bicep, a couple of others dotting his forearms and even the back of his hand. Cas can tell his hair was recently blue, though it’s on its way to grown out and faded to teal and bleach on top of dark honey. And he’s wearing sweatpants in place of the spandex Cas had been expecting, which makes him feel somewhat better about his own attire. 

But what really strikes Castiel low in the gut is not the scattered tattoos and scars from healed-over piercings. It’s the clear, jade-green sparkle of his eyes. It’s the settled, solid square of his shoulders as he approaches with an outstretched hand. It’s the way his palm and fingers fit against Castiel’s, warm and still. Like a grounding wire on an electric current. Castiel blinks and remembers to breathe.

“You must be Hannah’s friend.” God, his voice is sinful.

“Uh. Yes.” He clears his throat. Come on, Smith, be mature. “Yes, I am.”

“I’m Dean,” he says. “You ever done yoga before?” Dean still has hold of Castiel’s hand, like it’s totally normal to just stand in the middle of a room holding hands. Shaking. Not holding. Shaking. Castiel can only shake his head no, and Dean gives him a smile with just an edge of teeth. “No problem. Not my first virgin. I’ll be gentle.” With an outrageous wink, he finally slips his hand free, and leaves Castiel spluttering as he heads down a short hallway deeper into the studio. 

A hand settles on his shoulder, and Castiel jumps half a mile. It’s just Hannah, looking smug. “See what I mean?” she asks.

Castiel’s not sure he knows what he sees. Tasting an entirely different flavor of apprehension, he follows Hannah through the double doors at the end of the hall where the rest of the class has already assembled.

The studio itself is more brightly lit, with high windows on two sides letting in the diffuse brightness of the overcast gray outside. One wall is entirely mirrors under the windows, which has Castiel sucking in his gut and trying to square his shoulders. Maybe he should really look into that Master Cleanse.

Then he’s distracted by Dean’s voice right beside him. “Do you have a mat?”

“No. I didn’t have time to find one I wanted to buy,” Castiel says.

Dean just nods and holds out a lightly battered lilac-colored mat rolled tightly into a tube. “Don’t bother buying one till you know whether or not you wanna stick with it. Shit’s stupid expensive. You can always borrow one in the meantime.”

Castiel nods and takes the mat and joins the other students—not quite a dozen, by Castiel’s quick reckoning—arranging themselves in a rough grid around the room. He sticks close to Hannah, on the far edge of the studio, under the windows and away from the mirror.

The first five minutes, they all just sit there with their eyes closed, doing breathing exercises and wondering if there’s a point to this. Or maybe that’s just Castiel. Just as he’s tuning out and contemplating his shopping list instead, Dean instructs them to stand up, and that’s when the real humiliation begins.

He hadn’t realized how tight his muscles are until he tries to stretch them; he feels like he’s going to injure something, and he’s barely done more than bend at the waist. Looking to the side, he spies Hannah folded all the way in half, with her elbows loose and palms on the floor, looking completely relaxed. Meanwhile, he feels like he’s going to pull his spine out of alignment.

And Dean’s low voice is still melting over him. “Make sure you’re breathing. Come on, let me hear you breathe. That’s right. Out. Inhale, lift halfway up. Stretch out your spine.” His spine doesn’t feel like it can stretch any more than it is, but by god, he tries. “Good. Let it out, fold on over. If it hurts, you’re pushing too hard. You gotta be where you’re at before you get where you’re going. Remember that.” Castiel rolls his eyes at his own knees. Blood may be rushing to his head and the muscles in his back feel a little tingly, but he’s pretty certain Dean’s saying this for his benefit.

“We hurt ourselves so much everywhere else,” Dean says. “When you come here, I don’t want to see that. Okay? Be nice to yourselves, ‘cause no one else is gonna do it for you.” 

Castiel risks a glance up, then, but all he sees is the inverted plane of Dean’s spine, his T-shirt wisely tucked into his sweats. He kind of wants to go and hug the man, but he settles for letting himself put a little bend in his knees. It helps.

They move through a series of poses called a ‘Sun Salutation,’ and even though Downward-Facing Dog feels both humiliating and unnatural, Castiel only loses his balance three times, which is better than he’d expected. Every time they come to an upright position, he catches Dean’s laser-green eyes on his, watching him, and that’s what nearly knocks him out of his lunge. 

Of course. Making a fool of himself in his pajamas was exactly the impression he’d wanted to make here.

Not that he’d wanted to leave any kind of impression. He can’t afford that kind of thing. Get a grip, Smith. The guy’s not _ that _ pretty.

Okay, he is that pretty.

And it has been a _ very long time. _ Castiel may be beta, but he’s still human.

“Great. Shake it out, everybody. Get ready for Warrior One.” Castiel understood the first half of that, so he rolls his neck and his complaining wrists and tries not to feel like an overworked pretzel. “I’ll be coming around to lend a hand, so you guys just get yourselves set up, and I’ll be there in a moment.” 

That sets off a whirlwind of butterflies in Castiel’s stomach. _ Lend a hand. _Probably, mostly, to the only newbie in the room. He’s not sure if that prospect is exciting, terrifying, or both. 

True to suspicion, Dean meanders in Castiel’s direction. “You’re doin’ good,” he says as he approaches. Castiel snorts. “I’m serious. You’re tense, but you’re at a good starting point.”

“I feel like a walking bucket of sticks,” Castiel grumbles. Hannah gives him a sympathetic smile over her shoulder from where she—and the rest of the class—are all facing the other way. “Just show me the next one, please.”

Dean snickers at his shortness, all sparkle-eyed, then stands to the side of the mat to demonstrate the particulars of the position—left foot steps back on the mat, angled, right foot forward, lunge, arms up. Castiel does his best to copy the pose, though he remains uncomfortably aware of the narrow foot of space between their bodies, his chest facing Dean’s back, and tries not to let himself breathe too deep lest he lose his head to that patchouli-lavender scent from earlier, which he suspects belongs to Dean. That’s a fool’s errand, though, because Dean keeps saying “Inhale,” and in unison, they all suck in deep lungfuls of air—and yeah, there it is. Earthy and floral, spicy and sweet. But it’s not as strong as Castiel expected. Perhaps Dean is wearing blockers of some kind, which would be smart, given his profession. Or maybe he can blame his dull beta nose. Either way, he’s grateful, because however much he wants to know what Dean smells like up close, these sweatpants don’t leave much to the imagination.

Then Dean turns around.

He looks Castiel dead in the eye, flicks his tongue out to dampen his pink, plush lips, and asks, “Mind if I touch you?”

Castiel swallows down a whimper before answering, “No, I don’t mind.”

Dean steps even closer, well inside Castiel’s personal space, before reaching up to rest both hands on Castiel’s shoulders. “Keep your shoulders away from your ears,” he murmurs, low enough to be startling in its intimacy. And Cas feels the tension drain from his neck and upper back under the press of those hands, as if Dean has turned on a tap to let it flow out. Dean’s fingers curl over the rounds of his shoulders, soothing, rolling them back and down. All at once, Cas feels his breathing coming easier, his posture magically improved, and just… grounded. Solid. “There you go,” Dean says with a more genuine smile than Cas has seen on him yet. “Better?”

Castiel nods. “Better.”

“Good.” Those hands slide off his shoulders, but Castiel only gets a few seconds of reprieve before there’s a two-fingered touch over his right hip. “Now bend at the waist, reach forward—”

Yeah. There’s no way Castiel will survive this.

~~

“So? What did you think?” Hannah asks as they stroll down the street to their vehicles.

Castiel shrugs. “It was… an experience.”

“You hated it, didn’t you?” She doesn’t even sound put out.

“What? No, not at all.” Hannah just raises an eyebrow, and he shrugs again. “It wasn’t particularly comfortable, but it was… useful. I feel good.” The sun is starting to burn off some of the morning gray, warm rays peeking through the treetops. Castiel lifts his face to catch them, and he does feel good. Better than he has in a long time, in fact. He breathes in deep and catches the scents of petrichor and sunshine, along with the incense clinging to his clothes and hair. It keeps him breathing in for several seconds longer, deeper, than he thought possible, and yes. He feels… frankly, amazing.

Hannah breaks his reverie, though. “And how about Dean?”

Castiel stiffens in his core. “What about him?”

She gives him a look. “Come on. You were completely gobsmacked, Castiel.”

That deep breath catches in his lungs, but he just shrugs, leveling his voice with care. “He has an interesting outlook on life.”

“That’s all you found interesting about him, huh?”

“If you think he’s so interesting, why don’t _ you _ go sniffing after him?” Castiel snaps. It’s a swift kick of defensiveness, but Hannah seems to register only her fellow alpha’s bullheadishness and not the fight or flight reflex under the surface.

“No,” she muses with a shrug. “He’s not really my type.”

“And what is your type?” He resists the urge to make air quotes, but only barely.

“Women,” she says with a grin.

Castiel snorts. He should have expected that. They’ve reached his car now, and he rounds to the driver’s side quickly, grateful for the excuse to escape the conversation.

“See you next week, then?” Hannah calls after him.

Before he can think better of it, he calls back, “I’ll be here.”

~~

It’s rare that Dean gets a guy in his classes. Not unheard of, but rare, and usually when they do come in, they’re long-haired, man-bun types with too much granola up their sleeves—and universally omega. They mostly just try to get chummy. He has been hit on here and there, but that usually comes from alpha cougars trying to get him in plough position.

But this guy.

This guy is none of that.

Well, he is an alpha. Dean can smell that much, even through his own mask of incense and essential oils. His scent is sharp, almost astringent, but grounded in tobacco, honey, and evergreen sap. It’s not bad, but it’s a little… disappointingly generic for an alpha who is otherwise so un-alpha. Poor guy’s a stammering mess half the time, and Dean would be lying if he didn’t get a kick out of ruffling his feathers. A wink here, a little touch there, and the guy sweats bullets. It’s great.

And it’s not all fun and games. Castiel is still as wobbly as a newborn colt on the mat, but with all the bullheaded stubbornness that comes with the alpha territory. Dean is obligated to help him. Has to get real up close and personal to make sure he doesn’t hurt himself. Right? 

That’s his story, and he’s sticking to it.

The first class or two, Castiel had lit out the moment he had his shoes on. Lately, though, he's been lingering, slowly toying with his laces while the rest of the class chatters about their weeks, waiting with his loaner mat until it’s just him and Dean in the studio. It's cute, and it makes Dean squirmy in a way he doesn't want to look at too closely, a little warm softness in his belly. 

Dangerous. Very dangerous. 

Dean waves as his students filter out and tries to get out of his own head. If Cas wants to nurse this little crush, that's his own business. Dean knows better than to dream about returning it. 

Which means he really shouldn’t be encouraging it, either. 

He almost jumps when he feels Cas’s loaner mat tapping him on the arm. “Here,” Cas is saying. “Thank you for your assistance, as always.”

“Yeah, sure, no problem,” Dean takes the mat and slots it in with the others. “Your Down-Dog is looking a lot better.” Oh boy. Phrasing, Winchester.

Castiel snorts. “One times zero is still zero, Dean.”

“Aww, come on, you’re not that bad,” Dean says, and he means it, but Castiel raises a skeptical eyebrow. 

“I bet you say that to all your rigid neophytes.”

That makes Dean grin. “Trust me, you're doing fine. It is generally considered rude to snore during Savasana, though.”

That earns him a glare. “I was not snoring.”

“You were snoring.”

And now an eye-roll; damn, he’s doing good today. “Savasana is the longest word for ‘nap’ I’ve ever heard,” Cas says, good humor tugging at his lips.

That gets Dean laughing, much as he tries to keep a lid on it. Cas gives in, too, smiling like he’s happy to have made Dean laugh or some stupid shit like that. Dean leans against the shoe cubbies, stalling the moment when they will run out of conversation and Cas will leave. “How’d Hannah talk you into this, anyway?”

Cas spreads his hands. “Do I not seem the type for yoga?” he asks with a healthy dose of self-irony.

“Hell, do I? More to the point, why’re you sticking around?” When he’d started, Dean had given him two or three sessions, tops, but now he’s firmly wedged himself in as one of the regulars.

Cas’s eyes flash and his cheeks burn pink. Dean fights down a cat-at-the-cream grin and lets him flounder. “Um,” Cas manages eventually. “It’s. Well. Relaxing,” he says with a shrug and a sideways glance. “I have other workout routines that accomplish most of my goals, but they don’t—” he stops, then starts again. “If I say ‘encourage inner peace’ here, will I sound stupid?”

Dean laughs again. “Nah, that’s pretty much the nail on the head, there,” he says. And he should leave it there, he knows that. This is starting to edge on the kind of personal that he needs to avoid with Cas, but before he can stop it, he’s gone and opened his big mouth again. “There’s other ways to relax besides yoga, you know.”

Cas tilts his head, and no alpha should ever be that adorable. “Such as?”

Don’t say it, Winchester. Don’t you dare—“Ever had a professional massage?” Damn. Like the world’s worst pick-up line.

Castiel blinks. “That’s not something I’ve ever considered.”

Dean spreads his hands. “Well. I am at your service.” _ Phrasing _, Winchester.

Cas’s eyes bug out of his head. “You do that?”

“Yeah, I got a separate room upstairs,” he says with a jerk of his thumb and tries not to think about how sketchy that sounds.

“Would you—” he clears his throat, squares his shoulders, dropping them down, good boy. “Would you consider me for a client?”

Dean snorts. “You don’t gotta be so formal about it, sheesh. Come on. We’ll get you booked.” He turns toward the hallway, not bothering to check if Cas is following, and steels himself with a tight breath. This is a bad idea. This is such a bad idea.

~~

Here’s the thing.

There are several misconceptions about betas. They are poorly understood, poorly represented, and poorly treated. All that most people know is that they don’t have ruts or heats, don’t have a scent of their own—at least not scents detectable from a distance—don’t have any of the secondary sex characteristics that mark someone as an alpha or an omega. Evolutionary biologists have termed the existence of betas as a kind of _ pedomorphism _, where the traits of childhood persist into adulthood. Which is an unfortunate use of a Greek root because people already shy away from sex and relationships with betas. It’s “icky.”

Complete nonsense.

It’s true that betas don’t experience estrus cycles. And it’s true that Castiel spent his teenage years waiting for a knot to pop at the base of his cock or to feel himself dripping slick, neither of which has ever happened. But Castiel has spent the last several Saturdays tormented by smokey patchouli and blooming lavender. It lingers even after his shower; it taunts him through dinner; it consumes his senses at night when he thrusts into the tunnel of his fingers, trying not to think about toned limbs and tan skin peppered with tattoos and scars, pink lips and green eyes and— 

He is not some sexless, unfinished _ thing. _ And as he flops on his back post-orgasm, the unsung truth rages up inside of him, and he doesn’t have the willpower to fight it down. 

It’s not as if Castiel asked to be beta. No matter what the world tries to tell him, no matter how hard he tried, being beta is not a _ choice. _He does not have some deeply repressed alpha buried inside him who merely needs to be coaxed out. He didn’t suffer some trauma in childhood that has kept him from presenting. It’s who he is, irrevocable.

Being alpha would have been correct. That’s what Castiel has heard all his life since he failed to present. His advancing puberty had been marked by worried glances, concerned whispers. Hell, even being omega would have been acceptable, even if it hadn’t been his parents’ ideal, but being beta? He still hears his father’s voice: _ There’s no such thing. And certainly not my son. _

Now, years removed from his parents and his church, he still draws from the deep well of shame they dug in him. Shame and cowardice. But at least now he recognizes it for what it is.

Sometimes he wants to lay down the burden of falsehood, take off the mask, and just… be himself.

He wonders what would happen if he tried to _ be himself _ around Dean.

He’s not even sure he knows how.

Rolling over in his sheets, he punches his pillow under his restless head. Dangerous to think like that. This is just a stupid infatuation. Dean is his yoga teacher. And soon to be his masseur. That’s all.

Castiel groans again at the thought of Dean’s hands. His touch like an electric current, those toned muscles coming to bear on his own flesh—if he hadn’t just jerked off, the thought alone would be enough to get him interested.

He wonders if he should put on extra pheromone. Then berates himself. He’s not going to be that skeezy alpha throwing his scent all over his omega masseur. Especially since he has the option not to.

That is one advantage to being beta: it’s a lot easier to hide your interest in somebody.

It’s better that way.

~~

Castiel comes more or less straight from work on Monday after a quick run and a shower at the gym. Normally, Monday is chest and arms day, but—well, missing one wouldn’t kill him, would it? So he pulls up in darkening twilight and a bit of rain, still feeling shower-damp and freshly adorned with scent from the little on-the-go spritzer he keeps in his pocket. He’s not running late, but his adrenaline levels are convinced otherwise.

The studio in the evening is a different animal entirely from during the day. The old, yellowy lights are almost garish, the space deserted and echoey. Castiel’s shoes squeak on the lobby floor; he checks his watch. Maybe he’s early.

In the quiet, he hears a quiet mechanical _ spritz. _

He frowns but disregards it. Then he hears it again. _ Spritz. _

This time he frowns in a direction—toward the deserted reception desk, a long L-shaped affair jutting from the wall. It was where he had stood with Dean to schedule this fool’s errand. He leans over the counter, and when he hears that tiny _ spritz _ again, he spies the device that makes it.

It’s a wall plug-in. At regular intervals, as he stands there watching, it emits a puff of fine mist that quickly dissipates in the air. Every time, he could swear he gets a renewed awareness of that lavender-patchouli scent, the earthy sweetness he’s come to associate with Dean. He tilts his head at the little cloud machine, wondering at its presence.

He recognizes it. He has a half-dozen scattered in discrete locations around his own apartment, and two in his office, for the express purpose of distributing his false pheromones as an alpha would mark their homes. He hadn’t realized non-betas ever used them.

“Hey.”

The shock snaps his spine straight. Dean’s leaning on the railing of the stairs overhead with a guarded expression. Castiel takes a step back from the counter and waves. Dean relaxes just a fraction. “You coming up or what?”

He disappears up onto the mezzanine, and Castiel hurries up the creaking wooden steps to join him.

~~

Dean washes his hands in the miniscule upstairs bathroom, trying to still the quivering of nerves in his stomach. Cas noticed his diffuser. But that’s fine. He’s just gotta play it cool. It’s only a big deal if he makes a big deal out of it. That’s how you hide in plain sight: you don’t make a big deal out of anything.

So just. Calm down, Winchester.

He stoops over a too-low sink, rinsing soap from his wrists, staring in the spotty mirror on the wall. He needs a shave, and he really should either re-dye his hair or cut it all off. The scar from his ill-advised teenage lip piercing stands out bright white in the fluorescents. He stares at that to avoid having to look himself in the eye.

“Come the fuck on, Winchester, this isn’t the fucking Queen of England.” It’s that ludicrous mental image that lets him break away from his reflection. He tries to drop his shoulders and work the kinks out of his neck, focuses on his breathing, and joins his client in the other room.

Because that’s all he is. A client.

When Dean joins Castiel in the warm, dimly lit massage room, he’s face-down on the table, a towel covering the curve of his ass and thick thighs. Dean blinks away from the shadows between them—he can see the edge of dark-colored boxer briefs, so at least he’s not tortured by the idea of Cas _ naked under his hands _—and tries his goddamned hardest to focus on his professional routine. 

“I'm gonna lift your legs,” he says, quiet under the ambient noise-music he’s got oozing out of the speakers. Not his usual groove, but he can’t exactly be blasting Black Dog and expect people to relax.

Castiel hums his assent, sounding aware and awake but comfortable. Dean slides a rolled-up towel under his ankles, elevating them to take strain off the lower back, then reaches for a bottle of neutral-scented massage oil. Well. Neutral with just a whisper of his personal cocktail of essential oils mixed in. Just enough to mimic natural scent transference. People expect that kind of thing; it would be weird if they walked out of here without some of their masseur’s scent hanging around.

Warming the oil between his palms, Dean moves slowly around the table until he’s standing by Castiel’s head. “Ready?” he asks, quiet.

“Mmhmm.” It’s a vague hum. Guy sounds more relaxed already. Dean takes a deep breath in, then out, and makes first contact with his fingertips at the base of Castiel’s skull. As he leans over, it hits him, the heady aroma of honey, tobacco, and pine. He sucks it in deep and holds it there. Yeah. This ain’t gonna be a cakewalk.

Letting himself breathe deep, his hands move in long, broad sweeps down his spine, circling around and up his sides. Just spreading oil for now, letting Cas get used to his hands. After a few passes, firmer and firmer each time, Cas gives a little sigh and settles deeper into the padded table.

“That’s it,” Dean murmurs, barely a whisper, and Castiel hums back.

At first it’s easy to let his mind wander to wherever it goes when he does this. Not quite meditation, not quite daydreaming. He gets some kind of zen vibe out of giving massages, usually, but then Cas has to go and start _ groaning, _ and Dean’s abruptly reminded of who, exactly, he has under his hands.

It’s not sexual. It’s _ not. _ Dean wouldn’t have a job if he couldn’t draw the line.

The trouble is, he wants it to be. This one time, with this one person, for some stupid reason, he wants it to be.

Castiel’s skin is warm and powder-soft; he’s lean in his muscles, fit but not bulky, with a softness around the edges. Dean’s heart stutters when his hands press into the soft swell of the very lowest part of Castiel’s back, where lumbar curve rises toward buttocks. Not inappropriate—he stops his hands from straying farther than they should. But it’s close enough to intimate that it makes his blood surge.

Focus, Winchester. Just a client.

There is tension close to the surface, and Dean works in broad strokes for a long time before transitioning deeper, more targeted, moving to the side of the table when the angle requires it. The stiffness melts off Castiel in little rolls, sighs, half-voiced groans. Dean lets himself float away too. He’s in his element. His hands and arms move in practiced motions. If he can just stop his brain from thinking, he’ll be fine.

“How’s the pressure?” he asks with his hands working deep into Castiel’s flank.

There’s an un-subtle slurping sound, and then Castiel says, “Fine. Very good.”

Dean feels his face crack in a grin. “You drooling on my table there, Cas?”

“Sorry.”

Dean chuckles, working in thumb rolls, not quite pinching. “Hey, s’okay. Won’t be the last time.”

“You’re very confident in your skills, Mr. Winchest—oh.” The rest of his name gets lost between a sigh and a moan.

Dean’s still grinning, digging in a little harder. “Should I not be?”

“No. I mean yes. You should.” Cas gives him a groan at a firm push, and Dean pays special attention to that spot that made him melt like lemonade ice in the sun. Then he reaches across and gently lifts Castiel’s right wrist—he’s definitely relaxed now; the limb feels floppy, unresisting—and smiles as he braces Cas’s arm on his own lower back, opening up the scapula.

“You’re gonna love this,” he promises and starts working his thumbs into the tension under the bone.

“Ah!” Castiel’s whole body twinges, and Dean lets up immediately.

“Too much?”

“Yes—maybe. No, just. Gently. That spot has been sore for a very long time.” His breathing is a little higher than Dean would like, but he relaxes back into the padding and he doesn’t move his arm.

Dean nods. “Duly noted. I’ll go slow.” And he goes back in with searching thumbs, gentle, exploring. Cas hisses, but doesn’t tense up. Sure enough, Dean finds a cascade of knots that has him wincing. “Yeah, you got some baggage back here, my friend,” he says.

“No kidding,” Castiel grunts.

“So, I can help you with that,” Dean says, releasing Cas’s forearm back to the bed and taking a moment to move in figure eights around his shoulder blades, up the spine, down the sides, a holding pattern. “But it’s not gonna feel great at first. And it's gonna take more than one session to get fully gone.”

Cas snorts. “I’m sure I can tolerate your hands on me again.”

And just like that, Dean’s skin lights up from the inside. _ Easy, boy, _ he scolds himself. 

Before he can do more than swallow hard against his instinctive response, Castiel is saying, “I—just meant. Um.”

Dean laughs it off, or tries to, getting Cas’s shoulder ready for him again. “You’re supposed to be relaxing,” he says. “I got this.”

He gives it another few moments for Castiel to melt back down, and to get his own heart under control, then carefully eases into the problem of Castiel’s trapezius. It’s a mess. But Dean listens closely and does what he can, alternating thumbs, watching for signs of overwork. By the time he switches to the other side, which is not nearly as bad but still needs to be balanced out, Castiel’s breathing has gone deliberately deep, each breath ending on a tiny whimper.

Time for a distraction. “So you and Hannah work together, right?”

“Yes.”

“What do you do, exactly?”

“I’m a senior financial advisor for Sandover International.”

Dean feels his nose twitch at that. Sounds to him like a pointless money-pusher, but he doesn’t want to say that. “Are you good at it?”

“Very.”

Well, at least he’s confident. “Do you enjoy it?”

Crickets.

“Eloquent.” Dean tries to keep his sarcasm out of it but probably fails.

“I’m very good at it.”

“So you said.”

Silence. Silence in which Dean feels Cas’s shoulders lock up under his hands, the last forty minutes’ worth of heat and looseness seizing up. Dean curses his runaway mouth. Of all things, why did he have to ask about his work? That never calms anybody down.

“Hey, I can’t be doing all the work here. You gotta meet me halfway.”

Castiel deliberately relaxes. “Sorry.”

A tense, awkward silence. One Dean can’t let go unbroken. “Listen, man, everyone hates their job. It’s okay. S’what I’m here for.”

Cas deflates. “I’ve worked so hard to achieve it. And I’m...”

Shouldn’t ask. Should focus on his skin and muscles, not what’s underneath. “You’re what?”

“Terrified.” He doesn’t elaborate, and Dean doesn’t ask. But he feels Cas’s shoulders shake once, twice, three times, and Dean’s heart cracks a little. 

This isn’t the first time he’s had a client start crying on his table. It’s not even that unusual; people release all kinds of tension during a massage. He tries to go his usual route: pretend nothing’s wrong, ignore it. Let them work themselves out. He’s providing a service. It’s none of his business.

But this time, with Cas, he feels a powerful urge to wrap him up in his arms, pull him up off the table and wipe his tears away—he can’t. He shoves a brutal lid on the instinct and just—just keeps working.

Eventually Cas melts again, calming. “Sorry,” he murmurs, and Dean’s heart squeezes once more.

“S’okay,” he tries to shrug it off. “Not the first time.”

“Won’t be the last?”

Dean just chuckles and begins the long, slow process of pulling his hands away from Castiel’s skin. 

It takes even longer than usual. 

He lets it.

Afterward, Dean loiters out on the mezzanine while Cas gets dressed. He leans on the railing, arms and ankles crossed, and mulls over the sensation in his hands, the scent lingering in his nose.

When Cas comes out, he looks all fuzzy-headed, literally and figuratively—hair all askew, face flushed and eyes dewy. 

“Thank you,” he says. “That was—very necessary.”

Dean manages a grin, even though his face feels like plastic. “No problem.”

Awkward silence. Dean chews his lip and tries to keep his eyes off Cas’s unruly hair, his untucked shirt. Cas starts to say something, then holds up a hand to wave goodbye, starts toward the stairs, and then—“Cas, hold up a second.”

Cas stops. Waits. Head-tilting. Unassuming.

“This might sound crazy, but, um.” You _ are _ crazy, Winchester, what the fuck are you doing? “And, like, stop me if this is creepy, or, or anything, but. Um. Would you wanna, like. Get dinner sometime? Maybe?” He feels like his heart is going to leap straight up his throat and strangle him. It doesn’t even get better when Cas’s face lights up, when he shuffles his feet and bites his lip and looks so _ shy _. This guy doesn’t even make sense.

“Dean, I—” he starts, and Dean is very familiar with that knife in the gut.

“It’s cool. I get it. It’s fine.”

“No, that’s not—”

“Forget it, alright?” Dean forces that plastic smile back into place and pats Cas on the arm, all buddies. “See you next Saturday,” he says, and even that seems presumptuous as he turns to escape down the stairs.

But then there’s a firm hand on his shoulder, stopping him, turning him back. “Would you let me finish a sentence before you run off, please?”

Dean stays right where he is. Watches the little swallow in Cas’s throat. “I’m listening,” he says.

“Just—why me?”

Dean almost laughs. It’s a very near thing. “Why you? Why am I asking a totally built, successful alpha out on a date? Seriously?” 

“Who just turned into a blubbering idiot on your massage table, yes.”

Dean just shrugs. The bigger question is why he thinks someone like Cas would go for a burnout beta like him, but apparently his dick was overriding his brain on this one. “Look, you don’t have to—I get it. I’m not—and you’re all—” Cas just squints at him with that stupidly adorable head-tilt while Dean gestures at himself, then at Cas, then lets his hands fall, useless and limp at his sides. “We can pretend I never asked.”

Cas shakes his head. “I don’t want to do that.”

Which either means that Dean has succeeded only in making him uncomfortable, or a second possibility that Dean won’t even let himself entertain. “Okay?” he prompts when he’s tired of waiting for the other shoe to drop.

A shuffling of feet, a licking of lips. Cas looks as nervous as Dean feels, and that’s—that’s something. “Are you busy on Friday?”

Dean’s heart is back to thumping; he can feel it vibrating through his whole body. “Um. I think I could clear my calendar.” That’s a lie. He has no calendar and nothing on it to clear.

Cas’s shy, pink smile is the most beautiful thing Dean has ever seen. “Okay. Friday.”


	2. Chapter 2

Castiel has not been able to concentrate all week. He goes through the motions, he accomplishes the most important tasks, but his heart’s not in it. He shops for a yoga mat on the clock, and Dean was right, they  _ are _ expensive, but not bad enough to give him pause. After he selects one for himself, he considers getting a second one as a gift for Dean, because—because that’s what’s done, isn’t it? Gifts? For an omega? Because his mind is spinning out fantasies of the two of them on matching yoga mats, free to look, free to touch, without the audience of the rest of the class, and then he dives deeper into fantasy land where the clothes disappear and it’s not exactly yoga positions they’re twisting each other into, and—

A swift, authoritative tap on his door, and Castiel startles badly enough that his elbow knocks his mason jar of spicy-sweet lemon juice. Luckily, it doesn’t topple over, merely skids a couple of inches and sloshes over the edge. “Come in,” he growls as he tries to mop up the mess.

No one really wants to have damp Kleenex in their hands when their boss walks in. Castiel does a double-take when he sees Zachariah Adler strolling into his office, then struggles awkwardly between cleaning up the mess, drying his hands, and trying to stumble to his feet all at the same time. “Mr Adler. Um—”

Zachariah’s eyebrows rise in amusement. “Having a little trouble, there?”

Castiel fights down a flush of anger at the mockery. He knows his place in this pecking order. “You startled me, that’s all.”

“What is that, anyway?” Zachariah asks, clearly catching a whiff of Castiel’s beverage.

“It’s the Master Cleanse,” he says. “Lemon juice, cayenne, and maple syrup. It’s supposed to—”

Zachariah holds up a hand. “That’s all I need to know, thank you. Your cleanse is your own business. Have a seat.”

There’s heat in his cheeks as he sits back down. He hadn’t even noticed that he’d stood up. Zachariah Adler is the kind of alpha who commands attention, but not always respect. He’s always made Castiel uneasy, guarded and off-balance. He’s never sure if that’s fear of being discovered or if he has that effect on everybody.

He clears his throat. “What can I do for you, Mr. Adler?”

Zachariah doesn’t answer right away. He gives that creepy, penetrating smile and then pins him with a pointed finger. “I like you, Smith,” he says. “You’re smart. You’re driven. I see you going a lot of great places.”

This should probably be reassuring, but instead it just raises red flags. “Thank you,” he says, and leaves it at that.

“I’m sure you’re aware that we hold our top performers to a certain personal standard, here at Sandover.”

The adrenaline sweats begin in earnest. “Yes, sir.”

Zachariah reaches into an inner pocket of his vest and pulls out a folded piece of paper, then slides it across the table as if it were made of gold leaf. “We’re a very competitive field. I’d like for you to consider this both incentive for you and investment on our part.”

Castiel blinks. “Pardon?”

Beyond confused, Castiel opens the paper. The number on the line makes his eyes bug out and his eyebrows do a complicated dance. “Mr. Adler. I, um.”

“Sufficient?” The smug asshole. Even faced with a salary increase the likes of which he’s never seen in person, Castiel finds it hard not to hate the man.

He swallows it down. “When you say ‘incentive’,” he begins, then swallows again. “What exactly is this supposed to incentivize?”

“Just keep doing what you do, Smith!” Zachariah crows with big, false brightness. “I look forward to many years of working with you.” Zachariah stands. Castiel stands, too, and fumbles an attempt at a handshake, trying to turn it into a wave as Zachariah takes his leave.

Once he’s alone again, Castiel slumps back down in his chair and scrubs at his face, then stares down at the numbers on the line as if they’re going to transform into a snake and bite him.

This feels like a bribe. That would be unsettling enough, but what’s worse is that he can’t figure out what he’s being bribed for.

~~

“This is such a stupid idea,” Dean groans through the smoke as he passes the pipe back to Charlie.

“Why, though?” she asks, lighting the other corner of the bowl. The only other lights in the room are an old CRT TV showing off-color Scooby Doo reruns and a red-shaded lamp over Charlie’s head. He’s been buying weed from Charlie since he moved to this city, more or less. She’s seen him through enough crap that he should probably call her his best friend. 

“Because—I mean, have you seen my life?” Dean says, waving a hand through the smoke.

“You ain’t that bad,” Charlie exhales in a plume and sets down the pipe, jabbing an accusatory lighter at him. “Worst case scenario, you get him high as balls and steal all his credit cards. Or—Ooh!” Her eyes light up with a grin. “Slightly better case scenario: you got yourself a sugar daddy!”

“Fuck off,” he says, biffing her in the chest with a sagging throw pillow. She snags it and chucks it at his head, which starts a giggly pillow fight that lasts exactly as long as it takes them to dislodge all the pillows off the couch and nearly knock over the lamp.

Charlie sprawls against the bare arm of the sofa, her laughter melting away into a curious expression. “What’s got you so bad about this guy, anyway? I don’t think I remember you getting worked up over anybody. Ever.”

The mirth vanishes from Dean’s face and heart, and he nods. “Yeah, it’s been a minute.” With a sigh, he rakes his fingers through his hair. “I have no idea, Charlie, he’s just—something else.”

“Does he smell good?”

There’s a thousand things Dean could say about that, but that sounds like a lot of work, so he just shrugs.

Charlie kicks him gently in the shin a couple times, idly affectionate. “You should tell him you’re beta.”

That ignites a flame under Dean’s ribs. “Charlie—no,” he warns. It’s a complete accident that even Charlie knows he’s beta. She’s too smart for him, and he was too stoned to come up with a good lie quick enough.

“Why not?” she asks. “He might not mind.”

“I’m not doing that.”

Her squint is stone gray and calculating. “What are you so scared of? That he’d freak out?”

“Oh, sweetheart, that’s just the start of the list.” Dean’s jaw is so tight he can hardly get the words out, and he hopes the acid in his glare is enough to warn her off.

“So—what? Are you just resigned to a life of celibacy?”

“It’s—look. There’s a lot, okay?” His fingers track through his hair again, over his face, digging into his eyes until he sees sparks. “Lotta reasons.”

“Are you worried he’s gonna out you? ‘Cause, Dean—no one’s gonna care. It’s 2019, alright? You can be beta. It’s fine—”

“Can it.” Dean grits through his teeth, abruptly both too stoned and too sober for this conversation. “Look, I get what you’re trying to do, but—I can’t.”

The tinny, cartoonish voices of the Scooby gang fill the silence between them. Dean stares hard, trying to remember the specifics of the episode.

Finally, Dean sighs. “Sorry,” he mutters. From the other end of the couch, he feels Charlie relax a little.

“I’m sorry too,” she says. “I shouldn’t have pushed.”

Dean just shrugs.

The gang has gotten to the part where they whip off the rubber mask to reveal Old Man Withers or whatever his name is this time, and Charlie breaks the silence again. “Wanna play Soul Calibur?”

Dean snorts and lets his tension melt off. “Sure, but you’re not allowed to play Kilik.”

~~

“You drive this thing?”

“Good evening to you too, Mr. Winchester.”

Dean slides into the passenger seat of Castiel’s big golden Continental with a roll of his eyes. “Quit that. Seriously, what’s with the boat?”

Cas shrugs, waiting until Dean’s buckled in before signaling to pull away from the curb. “It was the car that was available to me when I needed it,” he says, and wonders whether or not to mention the renewed indigo of Dean’s hair, looking deep and vibrant in the twilight. “You’re very blue,” he says eventually.

It was apparently the right thing to say because Dean graces him with a full-toothed grin. “Noticed, did you?”

“I think it’d be hard not to.”

Dean laughs, and some of the butterflies in Castiel’s stomach float away with it. This is easier than he thought it would be, even if he does have to remind himself to keep his eyes on the road. “So. Any requests with regards to dinner? I have someplace in mind, but I’m open to suggestions.”

There’s a beat of silence from Dean, enough to make Castiel pay attention. “Okay, so, I know I teach yoga, but we really don’t have to go to some crunchy, local-organic, raw-food whatever place, alright? I eat all kinds of crap.”

The satisfaction of success pings in Castiel’s breast, and he fights down a grin. “Somehow, I suspected as much. Don’t worry. Where we’re going, there will be no shortage of protein and grease.”

Dean pronounces that as “Sweet,” and they proceed to shoot the breeze as they drive. Dean tucks one Convese-shod foot up on the dashboard as he complains about certification renewal for his yoga license; Castiel casually drops that he got a raise. By the time they pull up to the restaurant, a few patters of rain have started to grace the windshield, and the blue glow is nearly gone from the clouds.

“Roadhouse?” Dean asks. Castiel nods as he admires the play of twilight blue and marquee gold on his face. “I’ve driven past this place a hundred times and never gone in. Is it good?”

“I’ll let you be the judge of that,” Castiel says, ushering Dean through the door.

It’s not much to look at on the inside—or on the outside, for that matter—and Castiel suffers a momentary heart-seize, wondering if he should have taken Dean somewhere nicer. Somewhere with cloth napkins and tall candles that glitter off the wine glasses. But a quick glance at his date, who still has stains of blue hair dye on his ears and who—yes, now that they’re out of the dim twilight, Castiel can see for sure—his eyes are rimmed with honest-to-god  _ eyeliner, _ and Castiel figures he made the right choice. Not that Dean doesn’t deserve all the luxury and glamor that he wants. But he looks at home here. And that’s what Castiel had hoped for.

“Hey, Cassie-boy!”

Cas turns just in time to be enveloped in a bear hug from a much shorter person. He immediately picks up the aroma of black amber and gunpowder that follows Ellen around, and he squeezes her tight. “Hello, Ellen,” he says as he steps back. Then suffers a quick wallop with a dish towel.

“You didn’t tell me your date was so pretty,” she crows, grinning fit to burst and holding out an insistent hand for Dean to shake. “I’m Ellen, and if he doesn’t do right by you, you just holler, okay?” 

“Uh—sure, will do, ma’am.” Dean looks a little caught in the crossfire, but he’s still grinning, so Castiel takes that as a win.

Ellen points them toward their table with a “You boys are over there—window booth,” and they settle in with a pair of greasy menus.

“So I take it you know the owner?” Dean asks as he peruses the beer list.

“After a fashion,” Castiel hedges.

Dean drops his menu to the table. “Wait, are  _ you  _ the owner?”

Cas snorts. “No. I’ve just known her far longer than is comfortable, for either of us.”

“You bring all your first dates here, I take it? Get ‘em vetted by the matron?” Dean asks. Cas blinks, and though there’s enough teasing good humor in the words to keep them from stinging, he tries to listen deeper. Wonders if that’s a vulnerable corner Dean’s letting him see.

“Actually,” he says, clearing his throat and crossing his arms on the table between them. “I haven’t been on a date in… A very long time. Longer than I’ve known Ellen, in fact.”

Dean is quiet, and Castiel wonders if he’s being weighed, and if he’ll be found wanting. “Huh,” he says at last, then grins, cheeky and cheerful. “Lucky me, I guess.”

Cas just laughs, grateful that the conversation moves on. By the time their server comes around to take their order, they’ve barely looked at the menu, in favor of discussing whether Tony Stark is really an alpha or secretly an omega. Dean orders some chili cheese fries to tide them over and then continues expounding his point about Robert Downy Jr. being an omega playing across the secondary line and how that’s  _ important. _

“So if they make Tony Stark omega, it undercuts that completely, you get me? People will think it’s just ‘cause Downy Jr’s omega, even if it’s not.”

“That is a fair point, yes,” Castiel says with a nod. “But actor secondaries notwithstanding, it would be truly excellent to see such a powerful, masculine omega in cinema, don’t you think?”

Dean gives him a sly wink. “Now you’re just tryin’ to flatter me.”

Cas smirks. “Is it working?”

Dean leans back in the booth, sizing Castiel up in a way that sends shivers up his neck and flutters low in his belly. “Not sure yet,” he says, but the turn of his lips encourages Cas to keep trying. “That would be cool, though. Hey—” Dean snaps his fingers. “Make Cap an omega. Wouldn’t that be something?”

By the time the fries show up, they’re deep into discussion of comic book obscura. Dean’s knowledge is far deeper than Castiel’s, but he can hold his own, and Dean’s enthusiasm is raw and genuine enough that Cas could listen to him for hours. When the server sets down a huge basket of steak fries buried under a mountain of chili and cheddar cheese, the aroma hits Castiel in the gut. His stomach growls painfully, and he has to bite down on his tongue to keep from reaching for the basket.

Dean, however, shows no such restraint. “Oh, dude,” Dean mumbles through a mouthful of gooey cheese and french fry. “These are awesome.” Castiel always thought mouth-watering was just an expression. Not anymore.

“They smell amazing,” he says, his eyes glued to the next mess of fry making its way toward Dean’s mouth.

Dean gives him a sideways eyeball. “C'mon, buddy, don't leave these all for me, or I  _ will  _ eat them.”

Castiel licks his lips and focuses on the mason jar of watered-down, semi-sweetened lemon juice in his back seat. “Actually,” he says, “I’m on the Master Cleanse.”

Dean chokes on a fry.

“You what? You get a hot date, and then you go on a  _ cleanse? _ ”

Cas shrugs. “I was considering doing it this week already, and I find it difficult to eat when I’m nervous, anyway, so it seemed timely.” That’s not a blush in his cheeks. He swears it isn’t. It’s just warm in here.

Dean cocks his head, charmed, curious. “You were nervous?”

Okay,  _ now _ it’s a blush. “Eat your fries.” 

Dean holds one up, a long thing broken in half by the weight of meat, beans, sauce, and cheese. “You sure you don’t want one?”

Cas can’t take his eyes off the fry. The threat of salts and fats and an overly fluffy waistline wages war against the promise of warmth, satisfaction, visceral gustatory pleasure. He craves it. And it’s right in front of him, held aloft in Dean’s delicate fingers.

His gaze tracks up from Dean’s hand and arm to meet his kohl-rimmed gaze, bright peridot and penetrating, lips like temptation itself. He leans forward just a little more in offering the fry, the muscles of his shoulders shifting in his tight T-shirt. When had he lost the flannel? Castiel suddenly  _ needs _ to know the details of that tattoo around his bicep.

He leans forward. The fry is slightly cooled now, but his senses erupt immediately with the flavor and sensation, the spice and savor of chili and fried potato. He can practically feel the dopamine flood his brain, and it’s  _ so good. _

His move must surprise Dean into letting go of the other half of the fry, because the next thing Castiel feels is a damp, solid  _ plop _ against his chin. And then he hears Dean’s laughter, and he’s torn between keeping his eyes closed to savor his gluttony and opening them to watch Dean. The former wins.

“Oh my god,” he moans as he chews and swallows.

“You—you still have—” Dean cracks up again, back of his hand to his teeth, listing sideways in the booth.

Castiel scoops the other half of the fry off his chin and into his mouth; as hoped, this sets Dean off again, and now Castiel can appreciate him fully. His eyes crinkle up into beautiful little lines. Castiel wants to kiss them. Suddenly, viscerally, with an ache in his belly and lips, he wants to kiss those lines.

And he realizes, just as suddenly, that he hasn’t caught more than a whiff of his incense scent since they got out of the car. The warmth blooming inside him starts to cool, and his heart gives a few hard, painful thuds. He starts to wonder if this night is going to end with a handshake and a “You’re a nice guy, but.” All the words he used to hear echo in his brain at once. No spark. No chemistry. Great friend. He fingers the tiny spritzer of pheromone in his trouser pocket, nervous.

If Dean notices his sudden panic, he doesn’t say anything. He starts to collect himself, wiping away a stray tear and sitting up straight again. “Y’know, for an alpha, you’re one goofy motherfucker,” he says.

The weight drops in Castiel’s gut, and he struggles to come up with a comeback. 

“You boys get a second to think about what you want to eat?” Ellen saves him from his plight, appearing unexpectedly at Castiel’s shoulder with a glimmer-in-the-eye smirk. “Besides each other, I mean.”

Castiel fish-mouths for a second, sparing a glance at Dean, the first thing on his tongue an  _ apology _ , of all things, and then he notices that Dean is  _ definitely  _ blushing. And giving him this soft little through-the-lashes look that Castiel has no idea what to do with. Even less when Dean shifts and all of a sudden there’s a foot pressed against his. It’s—it’s a lot. All at once. It doesn’t entirely pull him out of his shame spiral, but it levels his descent.

“Dean?” he asks, and he’s not sure if he means the footsie and flirty look or an answer to Ellen’s question.

Dean orders a cheeseburger with pineapple and Teriyaki sauce. Castiel orders a grilled chicken salad, which has Ellen rolling her eyes.

“Look, I respect your decision,” she tilts an eyebrow toward Dean, “But I think you’re gonna need to keep up your strength with this one.”

Dean chokes on his ice water.

Castiel dares to hope.

~~

** _Charlie [7:47pm]>> _ ** _ HOW’S THE HOT DATE _ __   
** _Charlie [8:01pm]>> _ ** _ That Good huh? _ _   
_ ** _Charlie [8:34pm>>_ ** __ You better answer me or I’m calling the cops alright???

The fresh air outside is like cool water on Dean’s face, early summer just warm enough that he’s comfy in his flannel. The mild evening rain has stopped, leaving just a washed-clean petrichor scent in the air. Castiel follows him close behind, still all buttoned up in his suit, but at least the tie is a little looser. Dean has the crazy urge to reach out and tug it free of its knot, maybe use it to yank Cas closer and do something stupid like kiss him.

Instead, he follows him as they wander slowly toward Cas’s cruise ship of a vehicle. “I shoulda brought you in my car,” he says. “Way classier than this eyesore.”

Cas bristles, and Dean tries not to find it cute. “Hardly an eyesore,” he mutters as he opens the passenger side door. So courteous.

“Compared to my lady, it is.” But he slides into the seat and lets Cas slam the door behind him. He tugs out his phone again and fires off a quick response to Charlie while Cas walks around the car.

** _Dean [8:56pm]>> _ ** _ Goin good no cops rewired _

Damn autocorrect.

Her response comes through as the other door groans open.

** _Charlie [8:57pm]>> _ ** _ OK GOD _ _   
_ ** _Charlie [8:57pm]>> _ ** _ GOOD* _

Dean chuckles—at least he’s not the only one—and tucks his phone back in his pocket. Cas is looking at him with this wide-eyed puppy look, and the butterflies start to flutter up his throat from his stomach. “Where to next, Mr. Smith?”

Cas blinks. His hands stick faithfully to the ten and two positions, knuckles a little pale. “You—you want to do something else?”

A slow spread of uncertainty starts in Dean’s middle. “I mean, I thought—maybe. I don’t know. You can just drop me off if you want.”

“No! No, that’s not what I meant, I—” Castiel laughs at himself, and Dean dares a smile. “I told you, I’m out of practice at this.”

Without permission, Dean’s smile grows into a chuckling grin. “We’re a pair, aren’t we?”

Cas nods with a self-deprecating huff. “Terribly suave, both of us.”

“That’s my middle name, I’ll have you know.”

“Dean Suave Winchester. Has a nice ring to it.”

Dean’s phone buzzes against his hip, and he checks it out of habit.

** _Charlie [9:02pm]>> _ ** _ R u gonna tell him?? _

He kills the display and shoves the stupid thing back in his jeans. Cas’s expression is questioning when he meets it. “Just my friend,” he says. “Buddy system. Y’know. Can’t be too careful.”

Castiel’s confusion clears and he nods. “I’m glad you’re keeping yourself safe.”

“Thanks.” There’s a moment where Dean is acutely aware that Cas hasn’t started the car’s engine yet. “Some alphas might take offense at that kind of thing.”

Cas’s frown turns sour. “Some alphas are pigheaded, self-righteous imbeciles,” he says.

Dean laughs, short and explosive. “You—yeah. You got that right.”

When he looks up, Cas is watching him laugh with this stupid, affectionate smile, all warm and unselfconscious. And he still hasn’t started the damn car.

“Dude, are we just gonna sit here all night, or are we gonna go somewhere?”

It’s Cas’s turn to laugh, much more subdued than Dean’s. “I confess, I hadn’t really thought past dinner,” he says.

“Well, I got an idea,” Dean says, pulling one right out of his ass and hoping it doesn’t backfire. “You ever been to the Rose Festival?” 

~~

The Rose Festival is a pumped-up relic of a state fair that happened to land in what would become a thriving population center. For a week in early summer, it takes over the waterfront, squeezed onto a long stretch of abused grass between downtown and the river. It’s expensive, bright, noisy, and a little ridiculous, and it lights up Dean’s face like a child’s under a Christmas tree. That alone makes it worth it.

Once Castiel has paid their entrance fees, a guard sticks a pair of orange bracelets on their wrists and they wander into the great neon vortex of a carnival at night. Dust rises from the grass under their feet; flashing bulbs, bright LEDs, and neon whirl before their eyes. Music from a half-dozen rides to their left competes with the ska band playing on the live stage off to their right. Cas can smell popcorn and corn dogs, fryer oil, and the dry sweetness of sun-baked grass kissed with rain.

And, if he leans close, a hint of lavender.

He wonders if Dean is wearing blockers. But who wears blockers on a date? 

Maybe he’s just being careful. He’d mentioned the buddy system. It’s not an unreasonable precaution.

It soothes his worries a little.

“Where to first?” he asks, looking this way and that up the causeway.

“Ticket booth,” Dean says, pointing. “Hard to get anywhere without tickets.”

Once they have a fistful of paper tickets each, Dean grabs his sleeve and tugs him off down the thoroughfare. They pass food carts hawking everything from popcorn to stuffed grape leaves and some novelty options like giant corn puffs dipped in liquid nitrogen which smoke in your mouth as you eat them. Further up, Castiel can see and hear the cacophony of carnival rides: rides that spin, rides that turn you upside down, rides that go fast, rides whose only purpose seems to be flying you very, very high. Castiel watches the dangling legs of several people suspended in what seem to be little more than playground swing seats, spinning like a carousel. “That looks—”

“Awesome?” Dean insists, a grin stretching his lips wide.

“Suicidal,” Castiel offers.

Dean nudges him with an elbow. “What’s the matter, you scared of heights?”

“When hanging on a chain that’s not rated for anything heavier than a bag of flour? Yes.” He eyes the swirling death trap with suspicion and edges away, wary of having a person fall on his head. “I hope you didn’t have your heart set on that one.”

Dean shrugs. “Nah. I mean, I like the high ones, but whatever. Come on, let’s get an elephant ear.”

That brings Castiel’s attention back to ground level. “A what?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never had an elephant ear? And you’ve lived here how long?”

Castiel just looks at him in complete bewilderment. Dean rolls his eyes—a dramatic maneuver that involves his shoulders, somehow—and marches off toward one of the food carts.

“I think there’s a law somewhere,” Dean says as he hands over a rumpled five-dollar bill in exchange for a basket of fried bread. “No matter where you go, you can find some kind of fried dough covered in cinnamon and sugar.”

Castiel’s insides squirm at the promise of oily carbs and sugar, and he’s not sure if he craves it desperately or if it will make him ill. The confection in question is wide and flat, so wide it has to be folded in half to fit in the shallow, paper-lined basket. If Castiel squints and tilts his head just right, it does sort of resemble the ear of an elephant—drawn by a five-year-old, perhaps, who had only seen elephants in cartoons.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re adorable when you do that?”

Castiel freezes. Then looks up sharply from the elephant ear to Dean, who is biting his tongue between straight white teeth. How can somebody’s  _ teeth  _ be that attractive? “Do what?” Cas asks.

“That. Go all—I dunno. Head-tilty squinty-like.” Is Dean blushing? Yes. He definitely is blushing. And now, so is Cas.

“No,” he says. “No, I don’t think anyone has ever told me that.”

“Well. You are.” Then Dean tears off a chunk of pastry and shoves it in his mouth—and sucks the sugar off his fingers. Cas has to look away from the pink shine of his lips in the carnival lights, and when he dares to look back, Dean is smirking at him with a twinkle in his eye. “See anything you like?” he asks.

“Uh.” Castiel is at a loss. So he just grabs a chunk of elephant ear and shoves it in his own mouth.

It’s heavenly. He can’t stop a groan and only realizes he's listing off balance when his shoulder knocks into Dean’s.

“Dude, are you okay?” Dean asks, steadying him with a warm hand. 

Cas shakes his head. “It’s—I don’t let myself have sugar very often.”

“Dude. We gotta get you to live a little. I mean, you do you, pal, eat what makes you happy.”

Cas finally swallows his bite and licks the sugar off his lips. “That is a very foreign concept to me,” he says, too quiet in the din of the fair.

Dean tears off another chunk and holds it up like the world’s doughiest champagne flute. “Never too late to learn,” he says.

They amble down the thoroughfare, taking in the sights, chatting amiably. Dean eats most of the elephant ear, talking with his mouth full, telling stories about bringing his brother to the fair when they were kids. He doesn’t mention any other family, but it’s clear he’s very fond of his brother, even though it doesn’t sound like they’ve seen each other recently. In turn, Cas tells Dean about his parents—ambitious, driven, business-minded. Loving, but distant. 

“Any brothers and sisters?” Dean asks, finishing off the last of the elephant ear.

Cas shakes his head. “Only child,” he says. The sugar has hit his bloodstream at this point, and he’s itching to do something with it. The wild lights and off-key cacophony of the rides hits his senses, and he points to the Tilt-a-Whirl. “Shall we?”

Dean’s grin couldn’t get any wider, and it’s aimed like a spotlight straight at Castiel. “Yeah,” he says, crumpling up the empty paper basket and tossing it into a sticky trash can. “Let’s do it.”

There is lots of laughter on the Tilt-a-Whirl. The trees and lights and night sky all spin crazily above them; Castiel doesn’t throw up, but it’s a very near thing, which is probably good, given that Dean is right next to him. He may be out of practice, but Castiel is pretty sure vomiting on one’s date is bad form.

When they stumble off, Dean laughs again at the sight of Cas.

“Dude—your hair,” he says. Cas reaches up and finds it a horrible mess, standing up in three different directions. With a grumbling curse, he tries to smooth it back down.

Only to have Dean step close and reach up to rake his fingers through the gelled locks. He shakes it loose from its carefully combed hold, brushing it up and out and giving his scalp a good finger-scrub. Castiel freezes, flummoxed and staring, and lets him.

“There,” he says. “Better.”

There’s not much Cas feels like he can say to that, except, “Thank you.”

Then he feels Dean’s fingertips under his chin, pushing gently. “Gonna catch flies,” he says with a smirk, and Castiel clenches his fists against a powerful urge to pull him close right then and there.

They try two more rides before they agree that their full stomachs can’t take much more spinning, and then Dean pulls Cas toward the games. This time, instead of grabbing his sleeve, he grabs for Cas’s fingers, and the soft, warm brush of his hand is magnetic. It’s only for a few steps between the Octopus and the water balloon booth, but for that fleeting instant, Cas is sure they’re doing something like holding hands, and it kickstarts his heart all over again.

They wander past a few game booths—popping balloons, knocking over pins, all in the name of stuffed animal prizes. Castiel slows to a stop in front of a game involving water balloons that has a wide array of colorful bees to be won. Their little gossamer wings shimmer in the neon lights.

“You like bees?” Dean asks.

Castiel nods, still looking up at their sweet little cartoon faces. “Bees are so very important to the health of this planet and the continued survival of all who reside on it,” he says. When Dean just blinks at him, affectionately perplexed, he adds: “They're also very cute.”

Dean grins, then nods like something’s been decided. “I’ll win you a bee.”

“That’s not necessary,” Cas says. “I’m sure these games are rigged.”

“Oh ho ho, look who knows so much about carnivals now,”

“Dean—”

“Hey, buddy—” Dean says to the teenager with dyed-black hair and pale face who’s staring at them through eyes more world-weary than anyone has a right to at the age of sixteen. “How much for six balloons? Three each.”

And that’s how Dean and Castiel almost end up in a water balloon fight. Dean eventually hits enough targets that the teenager hands over the smallest size of stuffed bee without a single change of facial expression.

Dean tucks it into Cas’s breast pocket. He has to step close to do it, so close Cas can see the spots where his eyeliner has smudged and rubbed away. “There ya go,” Dean says with a rakish grin. “You’re a regular beekeeper, now.”

Castiel laughs, but it feels distant, lost as he is in the sparkle of Dean’s eyes.

He wants to kiss him.

He could. He could lean in and meet those pink, smiling lips with his own. Is it time? Is this the moment? Would he taste like sugar?

His gaze must linger a little too long, or maybe Dean feels the pounding of his heart through the suit jacket. Either way, he blinks in a moment of understanding, and then—much to Castiel’s chagrin, he steps back.

“Cas, I, um—” he starts to say, and oh, god, that sounds bad, that sounds like the start of an ending. That sounds like  _ it’s been great, but. _

“What about the Ferris Wheel?” Cas interrupts, pointing up at the great, glittering wheel that has rolled above them all night.

Dean cranes his neck to look, then looks back at Cas. “I thought you were scared of heights?”

Cas shrugs. “It seems solid enough. I’ll take the risk if you will.”

Dean looks at him, the jade green of his eyes suddenly too penetrating, seeing everything, seeing right down to the core of Castiel. Then he nods. “Okay,” he says, and it sounds so very heavy. Castiel’s not sure he wants to know what’s weighing him down.

They queue up for the ferris wheel in silence. Castiel’s skin buzzes with tension, and he starts to regret that last ride on the Octopus. What was he thinking? He should just let Dean walk away. Cas knows he’s never been good at picking up on people’s interest, or lack thereof, so what on earth made him think this was a good idea?

But once they step into the swaying ferris-wheel basket, there’s no turning back; they’re stuck here for at least as long as it takes to turn the wheel a few times. Castiel settles into the seat, politely pressed against the molded plastic, heedless of the raindrops that bead up on the surface and soak cool spots into the seat of his pants. Dean perches on the other end of the bench, and the empty space between them feels like a chasm with a rushing river at the bottom. Dean’s smile has gone, and Castiel catches him glancing at his phone.

He desperately wants to travel back in time just ten minutes. He wants that ease and comfort back. It had been going so well; where had he gone wrong? He pulls the stuffed bee out of his breast pocket and toys with it, turning it this way and that in his hands, eyeing its cartoonish smile. Then stuffs it in his trouser pocket so it’s at least not so obvious.

The ferris wheel lurches into motion, carrying them up and over in a huge circle, high above the ground. He tries not to think about how high, though his legs feel a little jittery and he clings tightly to the lip of the basket whenever it swings a little too hard. He squeezes his eyes shut, but that doesn’t help; it only makes the downward swing of the circle feel like falling.

He risks a glance at Dean, but Dean is staring hard at the view of the city. Not at it. Over it. Through it. Cas looks where he’s looking, and he lets the beauty distract him for a moment. Twinkling lights spread out below them, reflecting off the velvety darkness of the river. At the crest of the circle, he can see the bridge from a bird’s-eye view, can see eye-to-eye with the tall buildings of downtown if he turns to look over his shoulder. Breeze rustles in his hair, and he remembers Dean’s fingers running through it.

What he wouldn’t give to be on the ground again.

He wants to say something. Anything. Wants to return to the subject of comic books, or omega equality, yoga, work, hell, even his family, but nothing comes out of his mouth. Everything is either too much or too little.

“I’m sorry,” he ultimately says, just to break the silence.

Dean rounds on him with a wide-eyed look of consternation, surprise. “What are  _ you  _ sorry for?” 

“For—I’m not sure. Anything. Whatever just happened.”

Dean deflates, and the ferris wheel drags them back down with a swoop that turns Castiel’s stomach. “It’s not—it’s nothing you did,” Dean says. “Promise.”

That’s almost worse.

They’re swinging back up, and Dean opens and closes his mouth a few times before speaking again. “Look, Cas, I—there’s things you don’t know about me.”

“That’s the point of a first date,” Cas says. “To get to know each other.”

“I smoke weed. Like, a lot of weed. And I’m actually a really shitty yoga teacher, and I only started massage school ‘cause I heard you could get free opiates—that’s not true, by the way—”

“Dean.”

“And I haven’t spoken to my brother in, like, five years, and that was only for our dad’s funeral. And I have a tattoo the size of your face on my lower back, and—”

“That’s not true. I’ve seen your lower back.”

“Right, but that’s exactly my point, you don’t  _ know me—” _

Cas’s hand lands over Dean’s mouth to stop the flood of words, trying to get a word in edgewise to tell him that it’s fine, he’s  _ fine,  _ that none of that could stop Castiel from wanting to get closer to him. But Dean reaches up for Cas’s wrist and pulls his hand away.

“That ain’t gonna work, this isn’t a romcom, okay—”

Cas leaps the chasm and kisses him.

The ferris wheel swings them over the crest again, buoyant, dizzying.

Dean doesn’t pull away. Cas doesn’t press for more than a simple connection, and when he starts to pull back, Dean follows for a fraction of an inch. He feels hot, his whole body vibrating, just from the cling and catch of their lips, the nudge of their noses, a sweet exhale on his cheek. 

Cas opens his eyes first. Dean’s flicker open slowly, sparkling in the lights from below.

Before Cas can say anything, Dean’s tongue darts out quick—twice—and his voice wavers when he speaks.

“I’m beta.”

~~

Fucking Charlie Bradbury.

Dean is remarkably good at compartmentalizing. He can keep his beta self in a little box with the lid shut tight, open up his fake omega box and pull out all those trappings, parade them around, and never the twain shall meet.

But Charlie Bradbury.

Her words had stuck. They rattled around in his head until they knocked the lid right off the beta box and left it spilling all over the place. Whenever he spoke, whenever he winked, whenever he flirted with Cas in the ways he knew, those words were right there in his ear— _ “You should tell him.” _

The worst part was, she was right.

The ferris wheel grinds to a halt, their basket just south of the crest. He's sure they've got a great view of the river and the city lights strewn out below, but Dean's a little distracted by Cas, still hovering a minute few inches from Dean’s nose, breath held, eyes so wide Dean can see the whole of his irises. They’re darker blue around the outside, he notes, wildly, inanely, spreading to cornflower in the center. 

“I should have asked first,” Cas says.

“Yeah, I know, it’s—what?”

“Before kissing you. I shouldn’t have—you didn’t consent to that.”

“Wait, what are you—it’s fine. Did you hear what I said?”

“You’re beta, yes. I heard you.”

“... So?”

Castiel sucks in a deep breath through a wide-flared nose, brow furrowing as he looks Dean over. Dean bears his gaze with his heart behind his clenched teeth.

“That explains why I can barely smell you.” Then, of all things, Cas  _ laughs _ , a small exhalation. “I thought you just weren’t that into me.”

Dean snorts. That would have been so much easier. “No. No, Cas, that’s not it.”

“I wouldn’t blame you. I’m not exactly a prize pony.”

“The fuck are you talking about?”

“I’m a workaholic who hates his job. My idea of a fun Friday night is Hemingway. I’m neurotic. I get so anxious before one date that I go on a cleanse as an excuse not to eat.”

“That’s all—look, Cas, that’s just  _ you _ , alright?”

“And—” Cas sucks in air, like he’s been forgetting to breathe. “And I’m—I’m beta. Too. Also.”

Dean goes very still. Shocked still, right down to his bones, because there’s no way he heard that right. “You’re making fun of me.”

“I swear it—I. I haven’t told anyone—in a very long time.” He gasps for breath between the words, color draining from his face.

“Dude, are you okay?”

“I think I might be sick.”

“Hey, hey—slow down, just breathe.” Dean grasps Cas by the shoulder, leaning forward until he can get eye contact. Once he's got Cas’s undivided attention, Dean takes in a deep, exaggerated breath through his nose, and Cas follows his example, though shakily, too fast. Dean lets it out through the mouth, and Cas's breath buffs across his cheek. Too fast again. Dean keeps eye contact, makes a little upward motion with his hand. Then a slow drift down. Better. In. Out. In. Out.

“You good?”

Cas gapes for just a second, then droops into the plastic seat like his strings have been cut.

“Thank you,” he says.

“Any time.”

Cas locks eyes with Dean, and Dean might want to waver. But he doesn’t. He holds Cas’s gaze and lets him look. Lets him see.

“So we’re both—”

“Yep.”

“Beta.”

“Uh huh.” If Dean grins any harder, he’s gonna split a lip.

Cas slumps there, nearly reclining in the bench, for another moment before his whole face squints up in a high, nearly soundless giggle fit. He covers his face with both hands and laughs until he runs out of air.

Dean joins him. He can’t help it. 

Their basket lurches into motion again, and Cas startles like a fawn in the woods, gripping tight to the railing along the top of the seat. Dean feels a warm, fluttery rush of affection, all raw-edged and new because—because he  _ knows.  _ He knows. And Dean can't stop giggling. 

A megaphone-enhanced voice echoes up from below. “Sorry for the delay, folks; we had some minor technical difficulties. We’ll let you all get another couple of go-arounds for the trouble, alright? Alright, enjoy the ride, and thank you for coming to Rose Festival!”

Cas is leveling him with a glare, but all Dean can do is keep snickering through his teeth. “Stop that,” Cas tries to growl, but the second his mouth opens, mirth tugs at the corners of his lips, and they're both off again. 

Eventually, Dean calms down, settling back against the seat. Now that he’s not distracted with the words stirring up in his stomach, he can appreciate the beauty of the view, the river and sky and the golden lights of the city. Round and round they go, dipped into the bright noise of the fair and then rising above it into their own little world. Dean shifts around and ends up pressing closer to Cas. Close enough to feel his radiant heat. Almost touching, but not—not yet.

He turns and finds Cas staring at him, rather than the view. It’s hard to read his expression, but whatever it is, it sets off a firecracker under Dean’s heart, all sparks. “What?” he asks.

“What happened between you and your brother?”

The heat turns rapidly to ice in Dean’s belly. “Uh. That’s a long story.”

Cas leans until Dean can’t help catching his concerned expression in the periphery of his vision. “I’d like to hear it.”

“Later,” Dean says. “One giant revelation at a time.” He wishes Cas had latched onto one of the other bits of personal information he’d blurted out in the run-up to his big reveal, rather than that one. Like the weed. That would have been fine. Or maybe if Cas had just kissed him again.

Wait.

“You kissed me,” Dean says, rounding on him. Cas looks surprised, as if he’d forgotten that particular detail. A red flush burns its way up his neck.

“Um. Yes. Yes, I did.”

Dean licks his lips, bites them a little. “Wanna do it again?”

Cas’s eyes flick up to his. And the look in his eyes is at odds with his blushing, nervous demeanor. He looks at Dean, and all Dean sees is naked desire, heat, like Cas wants to see down to his skin and further, deeper. He has to swallow the sudden flood of saliva in his mouth. He wants to be seen.

He wants to be  _ seen _ .

The ferris wheel slows to a halt just as Dean starts to lean forward, and Cas looks up. They’re near the ground. The family in the basket just in front of them are disembarking, and it will be their turn next. When he glances back at Cas, he’s looking shy again, just this side of nervous.

“Rain check?” Dean asks.

Cas nods. “Rain check.”

Their feet on solid ground once more, Dean still feels like he’s floating. The crowd has thinned and shifted, most of the families with young children filtering out, leaving mostly teenagers enjoying the fair “ironically” and people like them—couples on dates. Omegas making googly eyes at their strong alphas, alphas with possessive arms over their dainty omegas’ shoulders.

Dean turns back to Cas. “Wanna get out of here?” he asks, holding out a hand with his heart beating double-time.

There’s a tiny quirk of Cas’s lips and then the warmth of their palms sliding together, fingers interlocking. As they amble toward the exit, not in any particular hurry, taking in the sights, their shoulders bump together, and something as innocent as holding hands hasn’t made Dean’s heart race like this since the eighth grade.

Cas squeezes his hand just once, and Dean’s heart squeezes back.


	3. Chapter 3

“Well, uh,” Cas says as he pushes wide the heavy door of his apartment. “Come on in.”

Dean’s never been in one of these big fancy condo buildings before; he’d kinda suspected that no one actually lived in them. Cas’s apartment is definitely more sterile than his own place, but that’s not a high bar.

“It’s nice,” he says, looking around. The overwhelming impression is of gray. Concrete and white plaster walls, short-shorn gray carpet, stainless steel in the kitchen. It's surprisingly small; the whole apartment is mostly a kitchen and living room, with the bedroom only half-separated by a sliding door that Cas doesn’t seem to bother closing. The peek Dean gets of the bedroom on the way in is the only part of the house that looks lived in, but he’s quickly distracted by the floor-to-ceiling windows on the other end of the living room. Outside, the city at night winks at them, up there on the twelfth floor, diamonds and topaz on a black velvet sea, glowing softly from below.

“It’s not much, but it’s—well, it’s something.”

Dean snorts, tossing Cas a grin over his shoulder. “If you think this isn’t much, I’m glad we didn’t go to my place,” he says.

Cas smiles down at his feet and joins him at the window, hands in his suit pockets. “The view is nice, that’s true.”

“Can you see Mt. Hood from here?”

“I’m pointed too far south,” he says with a shake of his head. “But in October, I get to watch the trees turn on the hills.”

Dean hums a little and leans closer to the window, straining to look straight down. The streets and sidewalks of downtown are miniscule, almost blocked by treetops. Dean watches a bus drive by, looking—cliche as it is—like a toy.

Then he hears a small  _ spritz _ , and his next breath is full of rich pipe tobacco, honey, and pine.

He peers down behind a potted plant and spies a discrete wall plug-in. “Hey, I know you,” he says.

Cas leans over his shoulder to look down at the diffuser. “Yeah, I suppose that should have been a give-away,” he says.

“What scent do you use?” Dean asks, breathing in the aroma he’s come to think of as  _ Cas.  _ It’s still nice, but he’s kind of relieved to find out that there’s something else hidden underneath.

“It’s custom,” Cas says, pulling a small brown glass vial out of his pocket. “Formula 40873, from Pherasynth.”

“Dude, no way—” Dean takes the bottle from Cas’s fingers, examining the label and the little spritzer top. “This shit’s spendy as fuck.”

“I’m aware,” Cas says stiffly. He eyes the little bottle in Dean’s hand, his squint not quite a scowl, then shakes his head before Dean can ask about it. “What about you?” he asks instead. 

Dean shrugs and casually hands back the vial. “I get by with essential oils, incense, and boosters. I finally got one of those things for the studio,” he gestures to the plug-in. “To try and increase business. People like it when they can tell I’m omega right when they walk in.” He doesn’t even try to keep the bitterness out of his voice. In fact, he plays it up with a little jazz hands motion. “I think it’s too much, personally. Stinks up the place.”

“This style of diffuser isn't really made for use with essential oils; they may throw farther.” Castiel indicates the apartment with a sweep of his hand. “Do you think this is too much? I can’t really detect my own scent anymore.”

Dean smiles, feeling shy. “Nah. Just smells like you,” he says. Then Cas bites his lip and glances away, and Dean is quick to add, “But I’m looking forward to finding out what you smell like without it.”

That gets Cas’s eyes back on Dean, darkened and surprised. The city glow casts shadows on his cheekbones, his nose, and Dean has that urge again to tug him in by the knot of his tie and—

“Dean?” Puzzled. Puzzling.

Dean blinks. “Yeah?”

Cas swallows. “Why did you ask me to dinner?”

It’s like a punch in the ribcage, deflating whatever was swelling up in there. Dean huffs. “‘Cause I wanted to?” he says.

Cas looks at the floor again. “That would be unprecedented,” he says.

“Seriously?”

Cas just shrugs.

“I dunno, man. Why’d you say yes?”

Cas tilts his eyebrows like he hadn’t considered that.

Before the inevitable silence that follows— _ jeeze, _ what kind of question is that, anyway? Why’d I ask you out,  _ obviously _ —Cas pushes himself off where he’s leaned against a partition between the windows and asks, “Can I get you something to drink?”

Dean shrugs. “What’d’ya got?”

Castiel’s list of beverages is short and free of alcohol, so Dean ends up with a lemon-lime La Croix and feels kind of like a douche drinking it.

“I know, I know,” Cas groans. “Living up to the stereotype.”

“It’s actually kind of refreshing,” Dean says, and it’s not even untrue.

They sip in silence, perched on stools on either side of the kitchen… peninsula? The hollow roar of the freeway filters in, a soothing white noise, filling in the quiet of the evening. The only lights come from small spotlights above them and the glowing city on the other side of the window.

Dean regards Castiel. He compares him to the man who walked into his yoga studio, grumpy and stiff, but dangerously handsome. He’s softer now, somehow. Or maybe Dean’s just seeing under the shell to the vulnerable underbelly. It’s not just because of their shared secret, though; he’s been looking for the chinks in his facade since they met.

Cas blinks under the scrutiny. “So,” he starts, then clears away the crack in his voice. “How did you get into yoga, anyway?” he asks.

Dean snorts. It’s a seemingly safe topic; he gets why Cas would go there. “Do you want the short version, or the long version?”

A thready smile works over Cas’s lips. “Long. Like I said, that’s what first dates are for, aren’t they?”

Dean nods, then swivels his La Croix around in its can. “Rehab,” he says, and takes a drink.

Cas blinks, and the head-tilt looks entirely unselfconscious this time. Less deliberate, and far more bird-like. “I take it that’s not the short version,” he says, and Dean shakes his head. Sucks in air deep. Wonders how deep to dig with this.

“Yeah, you asked what happened with me and my brother? Well. I kinda fell off the map for a while after not graduating high school. I was friends with some—some really unsavory people, and I just kinda went along with whatever.” That’s not a period of his life he enjoys reliving, so he skips it. Whatever Cas wants to fill in the gaps with, he probably wouldn’t be wrong. “Anyway, I was not exactly sober when I showed up for Dad’s funeral. So. Sammy dropped me in the drunk tank on his way back to college, and… that’s it.” That’s not the whole story, and he wants to bite his tongue off to pass it off that way, but he can’t go there. Not yet.

“What were you in rehab for?”

“Booze, mostly. Couple other things. Anyway, they had a yoga teacher there, and, it helped.” He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Let me get my mind off everything, and into my body, for a change. Kinda helped me make some peace with the whole… beta thing. And it’s been a real two-steps-forward-one-step-back kind of process,” he continues, knuckling into his eyes. It’s probably getting late. “But, well. I’m here, right?”

Cas nods again, and Dean is glad to see not a glimmer of pity or unease in the clear blue of his eyes. He’s used to looking for it. Maybe that’s why he opens his big mouth again, why the next thing that drops out is, “Sam doesn’t know I’m beta.”

That brings another shock to Castiel’s face, brows pinching. “How? Wouldn’t the rehab center notice if you weren’t going into heat?”

Dean shrugs. “Withdrawal sends your hormones into all kindsa whack.” The lie is smooth, well-practiced. They’d never thought twice about the O on his driver’s license.

“But before that—” Cas clams up, as if realizing he’s treading dangerous waters. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t pry.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I want to tell you, ever think about that?” Shit, maybe he does.

Cas’s eyes are far too earnest, though. “I’m all ears,” he says.

Dean squirms. “I always thought that was such a disturbing mental image,” he says. “I mean, picture that. A guy who’s all ears? It’s almost as bad as keeping your eyes peeled.”

His rambling joke falls flat, just like he knew it would. Cas’s expression does not change. Dean relents.

“I was like, sixteen,” he says. “I think. Maybe seventeen. Anyway, I was, uh—” God, it sounds so stupid, now, but at the time it had been the most profound pain in the world. “I got bullied a lot. For being unpresented. You know, knotless, null, faggot. The usual slurs. Used to get beat up until I got big enough to hit back. They always said 'don’t worry, they’ll stop once you present,' but—that never happened.” He’s almost out of La Croix, and his tongue feels like parchment paper. But he keeps talking. “So—I’m not gonna say I ran away, but it was the closest I ever got. I was gone for, like, a week, didn’t go home, didn’t go to school, nothin'. And while I was out, I hooked up with some—some omega girl; I don’t even remember her name.”

Cas makes a wordless noise of sympathy, a grunt deep in his chest, and doesn’t quite reach toward Dean. Dean doesn’t quite reach back.

“Anyway, when I got home, I guess I still smelled like her, ‘cause—‘cause my dad thought I’d presented.”  _ Better late than never,  _ he'd said. It’s funny how some memories stay clear as a bell, no matter how many miles you put in front of them. 

“Oh, Dean.”

Dean studies the countertop with rigorous attention. It’s glossy black stone of some kind, flecked with white and silver. Monochrome. Gray. “After that, it was easier to keep up the lie than to own it. But—But that gets hard, you know?” And Dean looks up into the eyes of someone who  _ does know, _ someone who has lived the same lies and buried the same truths, and if that ain’t a hell of a thing. “Hence the drinking.”

“And hence the rehab.” God, his voice probably dropped an octave, and that shouldn’t be attractive right now, but damn.

“Hence the rehab.” Dean taps the stone counter with his empty can, three sharp, hollow tinks.

Cas gums his lips for a moment, then says, “Dean, I’m s—”

“Don’t,” Dean says. “It was a long time ago. It is what it is.”

He hates that he sounds so flat when he says it, but what else can it be?

Silence falls between them again. Just the whoosh of distant traffic punctuated by the louder engine grind of public transit. A train whistles the devil’s triad across the river.

Dean hauls in a great big sniff and sits up straight again. “So. What about you?”

“Me?”

“Yeah. Your turn. Your parents any more chill?”

Cas laughs, but it’s not a happy laugh. “No. No, I started hearing their concerned whispers when I was fifteen,” he says, setting his can aside to lace his fingers together. “They consulted doctors, psychiatrists, endocrinologists, and were told in no uncertain terms that I was beta, and that wasn't changing. But, of course, the one they listened to was our pastor. They had me shipped off to one of those… conversion camps.” The crack is back in his voice, and he stands up to get them both glasses of water. “Thought they could try to force the alpha out of me,” he says to the faucet. “I'm just grateful the more extreme methods of conversion therapy had fallen out of favor by the time I got there. It was bad enough as it was.” 

“Jesus,” Dean mutters.

“Very much so, yes,” Cas says, returning with their glasses. “Betas have no place in the Bible, I’m sure you know.”

“Oh yeah. I’ve heard,” Dean mutters.

“Nor in a good Christian home.”

Dean thumbs a stray drop on the side of his glass. “Shit.” 

Cas just nods, slumping with his elbows on the counter and hands cupped around his water glass.

“How is it now?” Dean asks, his eyes on Cas’s sturdy hands. “With your parents.”

Cas considers for a moment, sucking on his upper lip. “It’s… an uneasy truce,” he says. “We don’t talk about it much. I think they’re happy as long as I keep up the facade.”

Dean shakes his head, bile and anger rising up in Cas’s defense. “That’s bullshit.”

“I know. My mother is probably more aware, but my father still believes it worked. Hell, I believed it myself for a long time. But.” Cas looks up at him, eyes more open than Dean’s seen them yet, ever. “Well. You know how it is.”

Dean sets down his water glass with a thunk and says, “Cas. Can I hug you?”

Castiel’s cheeks crack into a rueful grin, and he nods. “Please.”

Dean is up and around the kitchen peninsula in moments, and he has Cas in his arms, solid and strong and pressed tight to all the sore spots in Dean’s chest and stomach. He’s still seated, so his head tucks right under Dean’s chin, and he can feel him snuggling right up into the collar of Dean’s shirt. He fits there. Warm. Feels good. Dean squeezes tight and nuzzles his nose down into Castiel’s hair, breathing in deep. He still smells mostly like synthetic pheromone and hair product, but maybe—maybe Dean can catch something of his real scent underneath. Or maybe that’s just the rain.

When Dean finally pulls back, neither of them mentions the dampness they’ve left on each other. Dean idles by the counter, unsure of how close to stay but unwilling to put the peninsula back between them.

“So,” he says, and for some reason Cas lets out a little snicker at that. Dean grins too, half embarrassment, half camaraderie. Definitely both. “I normally wouldn’t ask, but, do you mind if I smoke in here?”

Cas stands up. “I’ll open a window,” he says, and Dean follows him to the sofa. Cas pops open one of the windows—a long, narrow pane that tilts into the room—then turns on a fancy stereo system in a cherrywood cabinet while Dean fishes his tiny altoid tin and solid glass travel pipe out of his pocket. He turns the music low, just a background hum of guitar and sweet vocals, but Dean recognizes Tom Petty when he hears him.

“Nice,” he says as he packs his pipe.

“Hm? Oh. Thank you.” Cas joins him on the couch, eyeing Dean’s hands.

“You sure this is okay?” he asks. “If it’s gonna bother you, I don’t have to.”

Cas shakes his head. “Not at all,” he says. “I’m just debating.”

Dean sends him a questioning glance as he brings the pipe up to his lips. But before he can ask what Cas is debating about, as he’s lighting the corner of the bowl and breathing in, he feels four small feet land on the sofa by his thigh. He’s almost startled enough to cough, but long practice lets him set his pipe down and blow his smoke out the window. “Well, hi there,” he says to the gray striped tabby who’s busily sniffing at his knee. “Where’d you come from?”

“I see you’ve made a friend,” Cas says, and it’s not clear whether he’s talking to Dean or the cat. Dean lets her sniff his hand. Her whiskers twitch, and she studies him with wide, moss-green eyes. “I didn’t know if she’d come out of hiding for you. Strangers are hit and miss, but if she likes you, she won't leave you alone.”

The cat imparts her approval with a long, toothy rub of her cheek against his fingers. He takes that as permission to scritch her lightly behind the ear, and she leans into the touch. “What’s her name?”

“Sybil,” Cas says. “I hope you’re not allergic."

Dean grins. “No, I love cats. I had a big orange bastard when I was a kid, Scrappy. He was grumpy as fuck, but I loved him.”

Sybil climbs up on his knees and starts to circle restlessly, flipping him in the nose with her tail. “You weren’t kidding,” he laughs. Sybil berates him with a soft, purring meow before deciding his lap isn’t comfy enough yet and making the leap to the coffee table, where she starts inspecting his stash tin and bats it nearly off the table with one paw.

“I think she must have been a stoner in a previous life,” Cas says.

“You ever smoke?” Dean asks. He doesn’t seem the type, but Dean has been surprised too many times now to assume.

“Not in a very long time,” Cas says. “College was… well. It was college.”

Dean’s not sure how to respond to that, so he picks up his pipe again and starts to light. Before he gets further than flicking his lighter, though, Cas asks, “May I join in?”

Dean hesitates. Normally, he wouldn’t mind sharing, but what he’s smoking ain’t ditch weed, and he doesn’t want to send the guy into outer space.

Then he has an idea. It’s such an obvious ploy, but he doesn’t think Cas will mind. “I got a plan,” he says with a bit of a wink and lights and inhales the rest of the bowl. Then he shifts closer to Cas on the couch, breath held, leaning in and bouncing his eyebrows at him.

Cas blinks in surprise but bends to meet him halfway.

Their lips don’t quite touch, but it’s close enough to set off a wave of attention over Dean’s skin. Dean breathes out the stream of smoke, and Cas inhales to catch it. A few little curling tendrils escape, but when Cas sits back and exhales, it’s twice-filtered smoke streaming from his lips.

Next time, Dean vows, he’s not going to chicken out.

“Good?” he asks.

Cas nods. “Does that actually work?” he asks.

“If your tolerance is low and the weed is potent, yeah. And this shit’s medical grade.”

Cas scoots closer and tucks one knee up on the sofa cushion. “So you went to rehab.”

Dean wondered when he’d get this question. He fingers the glass swirl on the stem of his pipe, then finally speaks. “If yoga helps me get out of my head and into my body, weed helps me get out of my body and into my head. If that makes sense? Or—I dunno, maybe it’s another way to get out of my head. I dunno. I just like it, and it’s the only thing I allow myself these days, so—”

Cas’s hand lands on Dean’s, stopping his restless motions. “I’m not judging you. Just curious.”

Dean puffs out a sigh. “Yeah. Well.” Swallows. “Thanks.”

Cas hums quietly. “I’d like another,” he says eventually. Dean exhales on a grin and tosses the ashes out the window to reload the pipe.

This time, when Dean leans in, Cas is the one who brings a hand up to clutch at Dean’s flannel and draw him all the way in. The spark of their lips together is startling, and Dean feels the burn of smoke in his nostrils as it tries to escape that way. He catches himself in time to breathe a steady stream into Cas’s waiting mouth, feeling his chest and shoulders expand as he inhales in counterpoint. Dean shivers, and can’t help it when he follows the smoke with a quick flick of his tongue as their lips close together. Then he leans back so that Cas can exhale. He looks doe-eyed and a little flushed, his gaze darting from Dean’s lips to his eyes and all around his face. 

“Good?” Dean asks again, breathless this time and no longer talking about the shared smoke. 

Cas nods, quick and vigorous. “Very,” he says, then pulls him in again, angling for a deep, exploratory kiss, and  _ fuck _ , that sets off a firecracker in Dean’s blood. Apparently, Castiel is done with pretense, and Dean is so very on board with that. Dean gives as good as he gets, sucking on Cas’s tongue and then chasing when he retreats, letting their stuttering breaths echo back and forth between their open mouths. Dean's had his fair share of partners—more than—but this is different. He doesn't have to pretend. When Cas pushes, Dean can push back. It's never been like that before, with anybody. 

He's never been with someone who  _ knows.  _

Dean jerks back, then softens the retreat with a nudge of his nose against Cas's. He gets an up close and personal view of Cas's tongue wetting his pink, parched lips, and he yearns. But he needs a few breaths of space. Just a few, though, and when he feels Cas’s brow bump against his own, he leans into him. Lets his eyes close. Just listens to his own heartbeat, listens to Cas's breathing. Wonders when his fingers got all tangled up in the collar at the back of Cas's button down. Cas's breath hitches when Dean lets his thumb skate up his neck to brush the soft hair at his nape. 

He pulls back to look at Cas, all starry blue eyes, pink cheeks and lips. “How’re you feeling?” he asks. 

“Huh?” 

And adorable. Dean's face cracks into a grin. “Those shotguns kicked in yet?” 

“Oh. Uh.” Cas's eyes droop closed, and he shifts himself on the sofa. “Yes, I think so. Starting to.” 

“Want one more?” 

Cas nods, languid, loose. It’s a good look on him. Dean regrets that he has to sit back to reach his pipe, out of kissing range, but that doesn't have to last long. He's starting to feel loose himself, warm and tactile and giddy, so when he's got his last lungful of smoke, he pushes gently at Cas's shoulder. Cas's eyes pop open as Dean keeps pushing him toward the back of the couch until he’s sitting properly, then swings one leg up and over his thighs to settle in his lap. 

The look on his face alone would have been worth his burning lungs as he holds the smoke too long. Cas, staring up at him like he's too good to be true, like he's some kind of Adonis. With a giddy tingling in his belly, Dean bends, cups Cas's face in both hands, and brings their lips back together. 

Then Cas whimpers, this desperate little noise, and Dean almost forgets about the smoke again. He exhales too fast, but Cas sucks him straight down anyway, and it's hard to tell where the smoking ends and the kisses begin. Dean's tongue chases the bitter smoke, curling over Cas's tongue, sucking and exploring, tasting. Playing. Whatever he's doing must be right because a shiver twitches down Cas's body and Dean feels his hands clenching in the shirts at Dean's waist. 

Oh,  _ hands.  _ Right. Dean breaks the kiss, mostly, moving back just far enough that he can focus on getting his fingers in that dark shock of hair, rucking it up in whorls. Cas's eyes flutter closed when he tugs a little, and oh, Dean's going to remember that for a very long time. Then he lets his palms skate down over muscular shoulders, the ridges of his collarbones. Thumbing almost by accident over the buds of his nipples gets him a gasp, so Dean returns to circle more deliberately. 

“Dean,” Cas murmurs. 

“Yeah, Cas?” Dean is too busy touching to be properly worried, but he suddenly really, really hopes he's not moving too fast, because if he slams on the brakes now, he’s gonna burn rubber.

“I have a favor to ask.”

He doesn’t sound like he’s put off. He sounds as wrecked as Dean feels, which is a relief. Still, Dean moves his hands back to the relatively safer swells of his biceps. “What’s that?”

“I—” Cas swallows, hard, then leans in to bury his face in Dean’s neck, exhaling in a warm rush that sinks into Dean’s skin. His arms go tight around Dean’s waist, and Cas’s nose nuzzles until he finds the fragrant spot on his neck, just above his collar, right over his null-and-void scent gland. Where Dean has applied oils and perfumes every day since high school. Dean goes dead still.

Then he feels Cas’s voice rumbling through him. “I want to know what you really smell like.”

It’s barely audible, breathed into the fabric of Dean’s shirt, but on hearing it, Dean’s chest folds in on itself. “Y-you have any, uh. Remover?”

“Yes.” Cas doesn’t let go or move from his position. “I can, um. I’ll—I’ll return the favor,” he stammers, and Dean lets his heart melt to slag.

“'Kay. I gotta get up though, right?”

Cas seems to realize that that’s the case, yes, and his arms unwind immediately. He’s putting on a brave front when he lifts his head from Dean’s neck, but Dean knows better than to be fooled. “Lead the way,” he invites him, holding out his hand, palm up.

Cas takes it and draws Dean with him back toward the bedroom.

~~

~~

Castiel might be having a heart attack.

Okay, that’s probably being dramatic. But he does feel like he’s quivering from his core all the way out to his skin as he leads Dean past the kitchen, down the hall. Dean’s hand slides out of his grip once he's sure he's following, and he hears Dean’s little foot-shuffle when Castiel doesn’t turn in when they pass his bedroom alcove.

He really should have cleaned in there, but that had seemed imprudently optimistic. 

The bathroom is large and bright, but standing in it with Dean, it feels airless, too close. Cas grabs the box of scent-removing wipes without stopping and continues through the bathroom to the second door that leads straight into the bedroom.

He turns on a soft, low lamp by the bed, and winces. “Sorry about the mess,” he says, tucking the wipes under his arm and scooping up a few T-shirts and flannel pajama bottoms, dropping them on top of the already-overflowing hamper. There's not much to be done about the more structural clutter, but at least he can shuffle some clothes and books and papers around.

“You’re fine, dude,” Dean says with his easy way. What Cas wouldn’t give to be that at ease.

He sighs and drops the four or five books he’s collected into a loose stack onto the shelf. Then turns to Dean. Dean, looking soft and gorgeous, tall and solid all at once. Dean, with hair like a brush stroke of twilight, whose eyeliner has smudged off entirely and whose stubble is coming in like a beckoning temptation. Dean, who just a few minutes ago was perched in Castiel’s lap and looking at him like— 

Cas looks down at the box in his hands. There’s a smiling woman on the front and a promise to " _ Freshen your scent, Remove unwanted odors, and Enhance Your Natural Sensuality!"  _ He plucks one of the damp towelettes from the container, then hands the box to Dean. In silence and without ceremony, Castiel starts to scrub away his carefully applied facade.

Dean’s fingers still his arm, and he looks up. Dean is searching Cas’s face with a question. “You alright?” Dean asks. “Because we don’t have to do this. Not right now, I mean. It’s been kind of a big night anyway, and there’s—I mean. There’s probably gonna be a next time, right?”

“Next time.”

A little of that surety falters, and Dean scratches at the back of his vibrant head. “Yeah. I mean. I was hoping. If I didn’t scare you off.” So soft, wrong-footed. 

“Of course. Yes. Definitely. I mean, no—no, you didn’t.” Something uncoils inside him, and he watches, fascinated, as Dean relaxes again too. 

When a smile touches Dean’s lips, Cas has an alarming realization of exactly what lengths he would go to, to keep that smile on his face.

He doesn’t want Dean to leave.

It's terrifying and new, but he doesn't want to stop. 

Not looking away this time, even as his face warms in a certain blush, Cas starts again with his towelette. Dean grins like Cas has done something wonderful, then gets his own out too, and together they scrub at their wrists, collarbones, behind their ears. Shy smiles and little glances, traded back and forth. They reach under their shirts for their armpits, and Castiel catches a glimpse of Dean's stomach. He licks his lips. Dean rolls his eyes at himself when he grabs another towelette and shoves it down the front of his jeans, and that lets some of Castiel’s tension escape as nervous giggling.

As soon as Dean deems himself finished, he tosses his wipes in a trash can, reels Cas in by the arm, and buries his nose under the curve of his jaw. Suddenly, Dean’s scent spot is right there,  _ right there, _ and Castiel melts into him. It’s good to feel his solid weight again, pressed all flush with Castiel’s; it calms some of his jittery nervousness. He takes a breath and feels Dean do likewise. There’s still the chemical tang of deodorizer, so for now he just tries to relax into Dean’s embrace. Growing accustomed to the little shifts and misfires of his muscles, the sound of his breathing close at Castiel’s ear. They’re swaying softly; Cas has no idea who started it. He lets his eyes drift closed, all gentleness.

Then he scents it.

_ Dean. _

He doesn’t have a specific scent, not like an alpha’s or an omega’s. What Castiel gets instead is—a memory. Not of place or time, but of a feeling. Another breath, and Castiel remembers what it feels like to be relaxed and happy, carefree,  _ content. _ With all the time in the world, those summertime stretches of youth. Castiel drinks it down deep, all the way into his belly, and feels Dean clinging tighter in response and hopes very much that Dean isn’t the type to ask what he smells like because he has no idea how he would put it into words.

But Dean just clutches at him, curled fingertips in Cas’s shirt, and breathes him in in kind. He hears a soft sigh, just the edge of a moan, as Dean holds him tighter.

Then Castiel feels the tip of Dean’s nose, the press of lips to his neck.

And everything in him goes supernova.

He’s moving, and Dean almost stumbles at the sudden push backwards, but Cas has him clutched firmly to his chest. Won’t let him fall. He feels Dean shake with laughter as they move in tandem toward the bed. 

“God—” Dean sighs into his neck, clutching tighter. “You smell so fucking good,” and maybe that wasn’t laughter trembling in his ribs.

Either way, there’s a thump when Dean reaches the bed, and Cas helps him lower onto it. Having Dean under him is enough to send his blood surging south, and he wants so much. Wants to do so many things. Wants to kiss him senseless, wants to burrow under his clothes to the skin, wants to just keep breathing at the crook of his neck until he’s had his fill of that  _ scent,  _ but he has a feeling that would take a very long time.

Then Dean’s knees part and push up, letting Cas settle between his thighs—letting him  _ in _ . There’s an embarrassing whine, and Cas has to admit it came out of his own throat.

He takes the invitation and presses his hips tight in the v between Dean’s—and then is startled by Dean’s genuine, giggling laughter. He pulls back, but not very far, loathe to leave the warmth of Dean’s neck.

“What’s so funny?” he asks with a skeptical squint. 

Dean gasps a few more breaths of laughter and then says, “Is that a bee in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”

Cas frowns. Blinks. Then sits up enough to reach into his own trouser pocket and pull out the little stuffed bee from the fair. It grins garishly up at him, and all at once, he's giggling too.

“I completely forgot,” he says.

Dean takes the bee out of his hand, still laughing, and shoves it up toward the bedside table. It knocks a pill bottle to the floor. “Oops.”

Cas doesn’t care. While Dean’s neck is craned up, he runs the tip of his nose up the prominent line of his neck. Dean gasps, tilts his head more in encouragement. Cas follows with his lips, first closed and dry, then open, breathing heat into his skin. He feels goosebumps in his wake, and that summer-sweet smell blooms in his face as Dean’s breathing hitches in his chest. “Shit,” Dean murmurs, and then his arms are back around Cas’s shoulders, drawing him in. Cas feels his hips squeezed tight between his thighs. “We should—”

“Yes,” Cas agrees, and then, “Wait, what should we do?”

There’s a warm exhale of Dean’s laugh against his ear. “Shirts off?”

Oh. Yes. That would be better. He sits up on his knees to unbutton his shirt, and Dean takes the opportunity to scoot further up on the bed while he wriggles out of his flannel and T-shirt. The sight of revealed skin, lean muscles and freckles, distracts Cas from his unbuttoning. His eyes are drawn immediately to the tattoos scattered across his body: a fire-ringed pentagram here, a phrase in a dead language there. But he's especially entranced by the one encircling Dean’s right bicep. The one he’s been curious about since they met.

It’s a pair of intertwined snakes in black and green, weaving around one another in an infinite circle, devouring each other’s tails. The edges are blurred, the color faded by time and sunshine. He traces the green snake with light fingertips, and Dean’s gaze follows his hand. “When did you get this?” he asks.

“I think I was, like, twenty?” Dean responds, reaching for his own arm and pulling the skin around so he can see the head of the black snake, mouth open and gorging on its sibling.

“Before—?”

“Yeah, before rehab.”

Cas leans in and kisses Dean’s shoulder, above the snakes. His skin is warm, so warm, and as he follows the line of his collarbone with his lips, gets warmer and more fragrant. Dean’s chest rises and falls with heavy breaths, and his hands come up to shove the shirt off Castiel’s shoulders. “C’mon,” he whispers, “You too.”

He sits up to finish his unbuttoning, and then it’s Dean’s lips at his collarbone, his neck, and Cas’s heart does a tapdance from his belly to his throat and back again. Dean’s hands are exploring his shoulders, his back, the softness around his waist. He hates that softness, especially compared to Dean’s lean perfection— _ of course _ Dean’s physique would be perfect, he effectively works out for a living, what the hell was Castiel thinking—but then Dean is breathing hushed words against his sternum. “You have any idea how hard it was to keep things professional when you came in for that massage?” he says. “Seriously. Usually I can keep a clear head, but—” Dean's fingers dig in under Cas's shoulder blades in a facsimile of that massage. "It was so hard." 

Cas’s breath gets caught between a laugh and a sigh of relief. "Was it?" 

Dean giggles against his collarbone. "I mean, uh." Swallows. "Maybe a little." 

And God, just the thought—Cas's belly heats up like molten lead, and he has to shift himself in his trousers.

“What did—” Thick swallow, dry throat, a wriggle of his hips that’s totally incidental, definitely not trying to get closer. “What did you want to do to me?”

Dean’s low, dirty chuckle is like salted caramel, and his hands start to circle lower over Cas’s lumbar curve. “Oh, baby, what didn’t I want to do to you,” he rumbles right into Cas’s belly. Then he feels Dean swallow. “Mostly, I just wanted to touch you. All over. Friggin’ everywhere.”

“You  _ were  _ touching me.”

Dean pulls back to give him a look, half exasperated, half amused. “You know what I mean,” he says, and his fingertips tease the skin just over the line of Castiel’s trousers. Cas finds his hips tilting back into that suggestion of touch, and he can’t regret it.

“Please,” he gets out on a sigh. “Please.”

Dean's hands grab onto his belt and he pulls, leaning back, and then Cas is being kissed again, and oh hell, why weren't they kissing this whole time? Kissing with Dean's naked chest and stomach against his, kissing with Dean's scent in his nose, is like sweet fire in his veins. 

First, Dean tries to insinuate his hands down the backs of Cas’s trousers, but there’s not enough space under his tight belt. Even his fingertips light up Castiel’s awareness, so when Dean gives up on skin and just palms the curve of his ass through his suit pants, it feels like he may as well be touching skin, and when he pulls Cas in by the hips, his own thighs splaying wider—

“Oh  _ God— _ ” tears from Cas’s throat as Dean echoes a rumbling groan. His blood surges at the hot press of his cock to Dean’s, both still trapped but straining. Cas feels the pressure like a storm under his skin, and he starts a subtle rolling of his hips without thinking about it, blind and instinctive.

“You're so fucking hot," Dean sighs between his lips, stealing Cas's lack of response with a deep, filthy kiss. 

He’s trembling. Cas is trembling: his arms where he’s braced on the bed, his belly pressed to Dean’s heat, and he doesn’t know how to stop or if he even wants to. Then, the world tilts under him as Dean, with thighs tight around Castiel’s hips, rolls them both on their sides, then over until Cas lands on his back in the pillows. Cas blinks up at him where he’s straddling Cas’s legs, grinning down with glee.

“Can’t do that, usually,” he says.

“What?” Cas is having trouble thinking straight.

“Throw people around. I’m supposed to be all passive 'n' shit.”

Cas shivers. “Would you rather, um.” He swallows on a sandpapery throat. “Not be?”

Dean shrugs, but his rakish grin speaks volumes. “Maybe.”

Cas reaches up above his head and wraps both hands around the cold, metal bars of his headboard, lifts his chin to bare his throat. He feels the exposure all down his breast and belly. “You don’t have to worry about that with me.”

Dean’s eyes go wide, and he dives back down to close his teeth on the skin of Castiel’s neck. Cas gasps, surges up, and lets him. “Seriously?”

Cas nods as best he can.

He was right—that stubble feels incredible. Dean moves down his chest, and the juxtaposition of warm, delicate lips with the rasp of his five-o’clock shadow feels like a wildfire across Cas’s skin. He gets to Cas’s nipples, which he’d seemed interested in before, and Cas is happy to let him tease them up into little points that have him squirming at every touch. But when Dean shifts his knees from the outside of Cas’s legs to the inside, opening him up, Cas tenses for a moment and stares down at him.

He looks wrecked, red in his cheeks and lips, breath hot in the hollows of Cas's body. There’s a fear crawling under Cas’s skin, but he keeps it safely in his hands, clenched tight on the headboard. Fear that he’s not doing enough, fear that he should be more aggressive, more demanding, more _alpha_. Fear of inadequacy. But this is Dean, _Dean_ who understands, and Dean who doesn't expect anything that Castiel can't provide. Dean is the one knocking Cas's knees open of his own volition, and Cas hasn’t been so hard in ages.

“Can I?” Dean’s hands are on Cas’s belt buckle, right over his erection, and oh fuck, Dean’s going to touch him. He nods sharply, and Dean’s palm comes down sure and steady where he’s aching for touch. His body rolls into the contact, and his mouth falls open, soundless except a throaty gasp.

Then Dean’s fingers are desperate at his belt buckle, fly button, zipper, and then Cas is being stripped of his trousers. “You—you too,” he manages, and Dean gives him a smirk and a wink as he pops the button on his own jeans. Cas braves letting go of the headboard just long enough to sit up on his elbows and watch properly as Dean shimmies out of his denim. He’s wearing omega boxers—shorter, softer, a silky gray, and when he crawls back between Cas’s legs, Cas relishes the sensation against the inside of his calves, his knees, his thighs. Dean presses tight up against Cas in his own cotton boxer-briefs, the lengths of their cocks side by side, and when Cas tosses his head back, there are lips at his neck again, and it’s all  _ so, so much. _

Then Dean takes his wrists in his hands, moves them back up to their position at the headboard. “I liked you like that,” he murmurs, low and gruff under Cas’s ear.

He grabs the headboard again and holds on for his life.

Dean’s hands wander. They wander everywhere, rough calluses and blunt fingertips, taking shimmering fire with them. And all the while, the slip-sliding crush, the focused writhing, the inexorable push of their cocks together has Cas stirring himself into a frenzy. “Please,” he hears himself beg. “Please—fuck. I want—” But his words dry up.

Dean is there to rescue him. “I got an idea,” he says, kissing over Cas’s sternum from one nipple toward the other. “Tell me if it sounds okay.”

Cas forces himself to lock eyes with Dean, fuzzy and unfocused as he might be.

“I want to take our boxers off.” Oh, hell yes. “And I want to get my hand around both of us.” Cas bites his lip on an inhale. “And I want to see what you look like when you come.”

It’s a near thing Cas doesn’t blow right then and there, at the heat of Dean’s gaze and the shape of his lips as he says those words. But he nods enthusiastically—“Yes, yes, that, that sounds—yes”—arching his hips up to let Dean’s busy hands remove his last stitches of clothing.

And Dean doesn’t quite go straight in like he thought he would. Instead he stops, looks—just looks—for long enough that Cas feels his legs try to twitch closed, protective of his inadequacy. But when Dean looks back up, there’s a bit of a smile to go with the wonder in his eyes. “Hey,” he murmurs as he leans forward, slotting their hips back together and nudging a gentle kiss into Cas’s lips. “You’re like me.”

Castiel shakes from shoulder to toes, then wraps his legs around Dean’s hips—locking his ankles at the small of his back—and clings tight to kiss his elation into Dean’s mouth. They’re the same. They’re  _ the same _ . He’s not lacking anything, not here. Their kisses take on an edge, tempered, sharp. There’s hot silk against the bare skin of his dick and the firm length of Dean’s cock on the other side of that diaphanous barrier, and it’s going to drive him mad. In a moment of cheek, he tries to shove at Dean’s boxers with his heels, sliding on slippery fabric and warm, smooth skin. Dean pulls out of their kiss with a chuckle.

“Hang on, hang on,” he says. “You’re the one who went all koala on me.”

“Not sorry,” Cas admits.

“Yeah, don’t be,” Dean says, and then he’s kneeling up so Cas can watch as he pushes his boxers down his hips, his ass, over the jut of his cock.

Cas is reaching to touch before he quite realizes it. He glides the foreskin down the hard length of flesh, up over the head, then again. And again. It’s hypnotizing, especially when Dean’s hips start moving with his motions, muscles of his stomach flexing. Then Cas pushes his fingers down to the root. No knot. Just blood-firmed flesh in a single, smooth column all the way down to pelvic bone.

Dean’s hand on his stops his explorations. Cas looks up to see him biting his lip, breathing hard through his nose. “Careful,” he grunts.

Cas grins but lets go, and Dean glares down at him with heat but not malice. “Get your hands back where they belong,” he orders, then ruins the effect by coughing delicately. “Y’know. If you want.”

Cas can’t tell if the warmth washing through him is affection or desire. Then again, maybe they’re not so different. He grips the headboard, and licks his lips. “I thought you wanted to see me come.”  _ Good lord _ , he can’t believe those words just came out of his mouth.

Lust flares in Dean’s eyes, and he pounces. Bare skin feels even better than silk, and Cas chokes on a whine, arches up to meet him. Dean kisses like a bonfire, hot and bright, then leans back to insinuate a hand between them where they line up just right. Cas pulls on the headboard until his arms are sore and he feels like he can barely draw breath, pleasure rearing up inside him as Dean wraps a rough hand around them both.

“Dean,” he murmurs. “Dean, fuck—Dean,” over and over in a low groan. He plants his feet on the bed for leverage to meet the pushes of Dean’s hips, splays his thighs wider to get Dean closer. It feels wanton and filthy and like everything he’s always been scared to ask for, but with Dean’s muscular heat and hard breaths over him, he can’t find room to be ashamed.

Dean plays with them for a long time. Plays with their foreskins, sliding skin over firm flesh. Plays with kissing the sticky-wet tips together, smearing the beads of precome from one to the other. Plays with keeping his hand still and pushing the rock hardness of his cock against the steel of Cas's until Cas is shaking under him, shaking like a dry leaf in hot wind, ready to blow away entirely. 

“So gorgeous,” Dean murmurs. “So gorgeous, babe. You gonna come for me?”

Cas nods with a bitten lip, feeling the spiral of pleasure coiling low in his gut, pulsing in his prick. The desperate strokes of Dean’s hand turn the screw tighter, tighter, and with a few last jerks of his hips into that grip, he snaps. Everything rushes out of him, everything. Breath, come, tension, it all floods out, high on a wash of blinding-bright bliss. Distantly, he feels Dean’s grip become slippery with his come, hears Dean moaning lusty nonsense under his ear, and is just barely able to come back to consciousness in time to watch Dean’s hand flying over his cock as he pulses, adding to the mess on Castiel’s stomach.

It’s almost a shame. He’d kind of wanted a taste.

Next time, he thinks, and an entirely different kind of delicious anticipation zings through him. Next time.

Cas’s fingers cramp a little when he lets go of the headboard to wrap his arms around Dean’s flushed shoulders. He falls in a graceless flop on Cas’s chest, sweat-sheened forehead against Cas’s collarbone before he rolls to the side. Cas rearranges himself on his elbow to watch Dean’s face as he comes down. His boxers are still around one ankle; Dean kicks them off with a desultory grunt.

After a long moment spent counting freckles, Dean opens his eyes, and Cas doesn't even mind being caught staring. Especially when Dean smiles at him, small, soft. “Hey,” he says.

“Hi,” Cas returns with a gentle smile of his own. 

“So.” Dean clears his throat. “That happened.”

Cas drops his face into the pillow to hide his giddiness. “Yes,” he says, muffled. “Yes, it did.”

The weight shifts on the bed, and he pulls his head up to see Dean getting up. “You got washcloths in here?” he says, pointing to the bathroom.

“Yes,” he says, then looks down at the cooling come on his belly. “Bring me one too, would you, please?”

“That was the plan,” Dean’s voice echoes from the bathroom.

Cas is almost ready to doze off when the mattress dips again. He accepts the damp washcloth and cleans himself up as best he can. The silence stretches between them, tight like a cord across Cas’s chest.

“What time is it, even?” Dean asks but doesn’t seem to expect an answer as he leans over the end of the bed to fish his phone out of his jeans. Still entirely nude.

Dean curses softly and interrupts Cas’s reverie over his rear end. “Past midnight. I got yoga in the morning.”

Something goes cold in Cas’s belly. Cold and hard like a peach pit. “Are you—how, um.” Fuck, but he doesn’t want to ask this question.

“You mind if I crash here?” Dean asks instead, and Cas can only see the tips of his eyelashes, the edge of his cheek and jaw, but through the tightness of his voice Cas hears the real question— _ “Can I stay?” _

“Of course you can,” Cas says.

That tension falls out of Dean like rocks off a hillside, and Cas is treated to one of those shy, beautiful smiles. “Cool,” Dean sighs and stretches out on the bed beside Castiel. He leans in, all green eyes and hope, and when Cas meets his kiss, it’s a warm, melting thing that has Cas’s toes curling in the sheets.

In the space between their lips after Dean pulls back—not very far—Castiel wishes he had something to say. Something clever, or something that could encompass the enormity of what he’s feeling. The relief, the trembling joy. But instead, what comes out is: “I need to brush my teeth.”

Dean just laughs, low and gentle, and he presses a kiss to Castiel’s forehead. “Yeah, me too. You got a spare?”

There is an unopened toothbrush in one of Castiel’s drawers, and standing in the bright lights of his bathroom—Cas in his bathrobe, Dean in those distracting silk boxers—somehow doesn’t feel cramped. Their elbows nudge each other, they spit in the same sink, their hips bump when Dean does a goofy little dance with his lips covered in toothpaste foam, but it feels like there's more air in the room, not less. Castiel feels expansive. 

Once they’ve finished, Castiel makes his rounds of the apartment—closes the window, locks the door, makes everything dark and still. As an afterthought, he takes an extra few minutes to find each and every one of his diffusers and pulls them out of their wall sockets. He leaves them on the floor where they lie like fallen toy soldiers and takes in a deep breath. As he lets it out, he wonders what this place will smell like in the morning.

When he gets back to the bedroom, he finds Dean with the blankets thrown over his hips, lounging in the pillows, scritching Sybil behind the ear and cooing nonsense at her. Cas leans on his perpetually open sliding door and watches them for a few moments.

“I’m glad you meet with her approval,” he says at last.

“Yeah, me too,” he says, now giving the cat long strokes down her back to her tail. “I feel like if she didn’t like me, I wouldn’t be sticking around.”

Castiel pushes off the door into the room and lets himself consider the implications of that.

He flicks off the lamp, and in the near-pitch black of the windowless night, they burrow together into the blankets. Sybil hops off to do whatever it is cats do in the wee hours. Dean tugs at Cas’s shoulder, and he goes eagerly into his embrace, using his chest and arm as a pillow. Breathes in deep the bewildering scent of them: undefined but not neutral, complex but uncomplicated.

“G’night, Cas,” Dean murmurs into the darkness.

“Sleep well, Dean.”

A long silence settles between them. Castiel lets himself be lulled by the steady whir of Dean’s breathing, the thump of both their hearts. Then Dean draws breath to speak softly.

“Hey, Cas?”

“Hmm?”

"I had a great time tonight."

"Mm. Me too." 

“You smell real good.”

Cas squeezes tight around Dean's middle, tighter than he meant to, tighter than he thought he could. “You too, Dean.”

A whuff of Dean’s nose in Castiel’s hair, the press of a kiss on the crown of Castiel's head. “Sleep tight.”

“Sweet dreams.”


	4. Epilogue

The day Castiel cancels his standing order from Pherasynth, Dean is there to rub the tension from his shoulders.

The day Castiel goes to work without wearing a drop of artificial scent, Dean sees him off with a blinding, reassuring kiss, and keeps him distracted for the first few hours of the day with idle texts and entertaining suggestions. Only a few of them make Castiel blush and hide his phone under the desk.

It takes a few days for the change to sink in for his coworkers. He can tell when Hannah figures it out because she pins him with a measuring look.

“Yes?” he prompts, bracing for impact, heart racing.

He sees Hannah’s nostrils flare, and then she smiles. “Nothing,” she says. “Nothing at all.”

Gabriel is not so subtle. Ultimately, Castiel’s beta status doesn’t seem to deter him from trying to pry him out of his shell, but Cas finds he doesn’t mind so much when it doesn’t carry the pretense of maintaining the alpha status quo. After a few drinks, Gabriel starts referring to him as the “token beta,” at which Castiel deliberately rolls his eyes. The next time, he brings Dean, and Gabriel complains that they’re ganging up on him.

It takes almost two weeks—just long enough for Castiel to begin to feel normal without his scent, starting to relax into his own skin—before he receives a summons to Mr. Adler’s office.

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

Adler is not a large man, but his office was built for a large man—or at least, one who wants to feel that way. He’s dwarfed by the massive windows behind him, the high-backed chair, his enormous mahogany desk. Amidst all the ridiculous ostentation, his face is grave as a thundercloud. “Have a seat,” he says without warmth.

Castiel sits.

Zachariah stares at him, folding his hands together slowly on his desk. 

Cas tries not to fidget.

Dean must be a bad influence on him because, when the silence gets to be unbearable, Castiel claps his hands down on his knees and starts to stand, saying, “Well, this has been an excellent chat, I’ll just get back to—”

“Sit down,” Zachariah snaps. “I don’t have time for your cheek.”

“With all due respect, sir—”

“Don’t act like you don’t know why you’re here, Smith. What do you have to say for yourself?”

Castiel’s mouth goes dry. He clears his throat before speaking again. “Sir, I—I fail to see what my presentation status has to do with my—”

“We hold our top performers to a high standard of behavior, Mr. Smith. If you cannot meet those standards, then I’m afraid your utility to this company is limited.”

The bottom falls out of his stomach. “I’m—you can’t—that’s discrimination. You can’t fire me over—”

“I’m not firing you. You were presented with a very generous offer some weeks ago. If that offer is insufficient, you are welcome to seek other employment.”

The raise. “So that was a bribe.”

“It was an investment.” Zachariah pins on his snake oil grin. “And an incentive. I meant what I said, Smith, you could go far with this company.”

“If I keep up the front.”

“If you keep certain personal abnormalities under wraps.”

Castiel’s throat feels like it’s full of knives, and he can feel his pulse pounding in every vein in his body. But he draws a deep breath, drops his shoulders away from his ears, and meets Zachariah’s gaze dead-on. “And if I don’t?”

It’s clear from Zachariah’s stormy expression that he is not challenged often. That he has built himself a position where he does not have to fear being challenged. Castiel steels his spine against the inevitable fallout.

“Then I suggest you think long and hard about what this company has done for you, Castiel,” Zachariah says, his voice dangerously low. “And what we could do for you, or to you, in the future.”

Castiel quavers. 

He nearly bends.

But what comes out of his mouth is a surprise, even to him. “No.”

Zachariah blinks. “Excuse me?”

“No.” Castiel is on his feet without realizing he’s moved, dizzy, feeling like his body is a half-step ahead of his mind. “I have spent my entire adult life lying about who I am. I’m finally stepping out of that shadow, and I can’t—I refuse to go back in for the sake of small-minded alphas like you.”

Zachariah goes red in the face, eyes flashing like lightning. He stands, but Castiel is taller. “Mind your tone, Castiel. I am still your superior.”

Castiel shakes his head. “Not anymore. Consider this my resignation. I quit.”

“You—”

“Goodbye, Zachariah.”

~~

It takes Castiel three tries to select Dean’s number, his palms sweaty, his fingers shaking and cold. Before the third ring, he hears Dean’s voice, tinny and musical. “Hey, Cas, what’s up?”

“I quit. I quit Sandover,” Castiel says, breathing as if he’d run up all twelve flights of stairs to his apartment instead of taking the elevator. 

“You what?” Dean asks, incredulous. 

“I quit. Zachariah wanted me to keep playing alpha for the sake of ‘performance standards.’ I couldn’t. I had to get out—I have to—”

He’s dizzy. Light-headed. Suddenly sitting down on his couch and not sure how he got there. 

Everything he’d worked for since he was fifteen, broken. Every expectation his parents had laid on his shoulders, shattered. And for what? He has a crazy urge to run back to Zachariah’s office and apologize, take it back, say he’ll do anything— 

“Cas. Cas, just breathe, okay?” It’s Dean’s voice close to his ear, the phone slid down to his cheek. He lifts it again and presses his ear to the tiny speaker, desperate for that voice. “You need to breathe, sweetheart, come on, breathe with me.”

Castiel closes his eyes, breathes in time with Dean’s counting. 

“Hey. You hated that job, right?”

“Everything about it.”

“So.”

“So what?”

“You’re free. You can do whatever you want, now. Right?”

“Zachariah could ruin me in the financial sector.”

“Maybe, but do you really want to work in the financial sector? That’d be like trading out a shitstorm for a shit sandwich. Not much of an upgrade.”

Castiel scoffs, but somewhere halfway through it turns into a laugh.

“Hey. Just take some time, alright? You’ve got an opportunity here that not a lot of people get.”

“What, the opportunity to be unemployed?”

“To reinvent yourself,” Dean says. “To figure out what your passion is. You’ll be fine. You’ve got time to figure it out.”

Castiel sucks a deep breath into his belly. Holds it there. Closes his eyes and listens to Dean’s continued reassurances on the other end, his steady wellspring of support. Lets the breath out slowly.

Lets himself imagine the future.

~~

“Mmmm… Oh, yeah. Right there, Cas.”

“Good?”

“You bet. You got magic hands, buddy.”

“You’re one to talk.”

Dean grins into his own massage table and pushes into the swirl of Cas’s thumbs under his shoulder blades. The guy’s no pro, but he’s learning fast, and Dean is very happy to be his guinea pig.

“We’d better get going,” Cas says with a kiss to the top of Dean’s spine. “It’s almost nine.”

Dean groans, then pushes himself off the table and to his feet. The curtains on the windows are open today, letting in the morning sun. Dean hears Cas snicker at his ungainly flop to the floor and gives him his best glare—which, considering that Cas’s grin is contagious, is not much of a glare at all. “You be quiet.”

“Is this why you always leave the room before your client gets off the table?”

“Yeah, so I can’t make fun of your wobbly ass. I get plenty of chance for that on the yoga mat.”

“Hey, I’m getting better,” Cas protests as Dean turns him by the shoulders and heards him out onto the mezzanine.

“Yes, you are, Captain Colt-legs. Now git.”

“Aye aye, Commander,” Castiel mocks as he grabs his tote bag from the floor by the door. He’s got all kinds of crap in there these days—a sketchbook and pencils, a journal, what looks like a book on home brewing today, a bike helmet. Dean doesn’t even bother to hide his grin. Watching Cas shop around for hobbies has been a trip, and the rich glow of his enthusiasm for each one keeps the smile on Dean’s face all day long.

Before they reach the top of the stairs, Cas turns back and plants a sudden, lingering kiss on Dean’s lips. It still takes Dean’s breath away, and he leans into him until the fabric of their T-shirts brush between their chests. When Cas pulls back, they stay close enough that Dean can count the blues in Castiel’s eyes.

“You ready for this?” he asks.

Dean sucks in a deep breath—a breath blessedly free of artificial scents from either of them. “I’d almost managed to forget, actually, so, thanks for that.”

Cas’s hand cups the back of his neck, thumbing over his ear. Dean leans into the touch and turns his face to catch just a whisper of Castiel’s natural scent—the scent he’s still struggling to define as anything other than _ home. _

The Saturday morning regulars have grown used to Dean and Cas coming down the stairs together. Dean picks out their names and faces—Hannah, smirking up at them like she’d predicted this from day one (and she probably had); Donna with her sunny smile, Jody already stretching her quads after a morning run. Garth, who’s chatting with Krissy, probably about some new vegan recipe. Claire with a bandaged ankle from her track hobby (she’s going to have to be careful on that today) and a half dozen others he’s known and worked with over the years.

And Charlie, her face almost as red as her hair, grinning like she’s already about to cry. She doesn’t come often, but she knows what he’s about to do and wanted to be here for it. For him.

If he gets half the support from everyone else that he’s already gotten from Charlie and Cas, this should be easy-street.

Doesn’t stop the queasy rolling in his stomach, though.

“Alright, folks,” he says and gestures through to the studio proper. “Shall we?”

He lets them all get set-up on their mats, arranged around the room, and tries not to run to the bathroom. Charlie shoots him a thumbs up; Cas just looks at him with quiet confidence and all the love Dean feels reflected back at him.

He can do this.

“Alright,” he says, then clears his throat. “Before we get started, I, uh. Kind of have an announcement. Sort of. I mean, it’s not really an announcement, just something I want to tell you guys.” The eyes in the room turn curious, some heads tilting, some brows furrowing. He clears his throat again. “Most of you are omega. Some of you are at various points on the queer spectrum—” he nods at Hannah, who grins back. “And I think most people expect a yoga teacher to be an omega too. Especially if he’s, y’know. A dude.” A couple people snicker at that, and Dean lets himself smile, too, before sucking in a breath. “But, um. I’m not.” Here goes nothing. “I’m beta.”

He waits for a second for the news to sink in. But besides a surprised blink here and a raised pair of eyebrows there, nothing changes. He licks his lips, glances at Cas, who is smiling that small, glowing grin of his, the one that’s mostly in his eyes. “I’ve been lyin' about it for too long,” he continues. “For one stupid reason or another. But I—I can’t do that anymore. I have to be who I am. And I hope you can all respect that, even if you don’t understand it. I hope you stick around, but if you decide you need to find another teacher, I’m—”

And then the strangest thing happens. Claire stands up first, wobbling a little on her bandaged ankle, but hurrying as best she can to throw her arms around Dean’s arms and shoulders. She’s followed by Donna, then Jody, then Garth, and then no more people can fit around him, but he hears applause and a couple of whoops from the rest of the class. He catches sight of Cas through the heads of his supporters; the smile on his face couldn’t be bigger. Dean feels the burn of tears across the bridge of his nose, but it’s okay.

He’s okay. They’re okay.

“Alright, alright, alright, back to your mats,” he grouses, waving off the cluster of people around him. His face feels like it’s on fire. “Let’s do some damn yoga, okay?”

There’s a twitter of laughter from the assembled crowd, but they migrate back to where they came from, and the class begins.

**Author's Note:**

> THAMKS FOR READIING. Comments are always, _always_ appreciated. Please feed your writer.
> 
> If you like this and want to follow my stuff, stop by [my tumblr](https://jemariel.tumblr.com/) and give some love to [Blueeyesandpie](https://blueeyesandpie.tumblr.com) also. [Here](https://jemariel.tumblr.com/post/187770537651/picking-up-roses-on-ao3-author-jemariel) is a tumblr post for this story if you feel like reblogging ^__^


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